


It's Only Life

by DontOffendTheBees



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: (but no one who isn't dead in the original show so calm down), (may be some death), Discrimination, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Graphic Description, Heavy Angst, Homelessness, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Terminal Illnesses, pds, plus some (mostly background) Phamy, slow-building siren, still alive AU, touches of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-02-12 11:14:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 79,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2107710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DontOffendTheBees/pseuds/DontOffendTheBees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kieren Walker can't bring himself to die. He doesn't know exactly why, only that he feels there's something else he has to find first- unfortunately, that something is actually a someone who doesn't want to be found. Still, we don't always get what we want. </p><p>Angsty Siren Still Alive AU, trigger warning for graphic depictions of self-harm, depression and drug use/withdrawal. Do not read if you are easily upset/triggered! (First chapter's the worst, I promise!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Black & Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everybody!
> 
> Now, for those of you who haven't guessed already I've been pretty busy with fics recently. Six chapters to go of Broken Masks, a selection of one-shots, and even a Sherlolly fic when I can get my head away from the zombie boyfriends for long enough.
> 
> But this is one I've had in my head for a long time. This is pretty much the first multi-chapter I ever planned for this ship/fandom, had it kicking about in my head since episode 5 aired but I didn't get around to writing it for ages. But since I've got a couple of chapters written and several more planned (and there seems to have been a surge in popularity for Siren Still Alive AUs recently) I figured now's as good a time as any to publish the first chapter as a test run! If it goes down well I'll keep on writing :)
> 
> The name of this fic comes from the song by The Shins, some lyrics of which will be used at the very beginning and the very end. Listen to the song, guys!
> 
> MASSIVE MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNING: This is a pretty gritty fic, and the first chapter is the worst of all as it depicts two suicide attempts, one of which is described in quite a lot of (gory) detail. So if you are easily upset/triggered by self-harm, blood, drugs or depression, I would recommend just skipping this fic altogether. Or at least just skim the first chapter. I don't think it's ever gonna be as bad as this again, but I just got carried away writing this chapter and then couldn't bring myself to delete any of what I wrote. It's maybe not as bad as I could have made it but still pretty graphic in one or two places. So please, don't read if you're overly sensitive 'cause I don't wanna make anyone depressed! Or at least, not in the actual clinical dangerous sense- if this fic just makes you sad in the harmless 'this-fic-is-tearing-out-my-heart-and-I'm-loving-it' way, then I consider that a success. I'm a fanfic author, I feed off your praise and feels.
> 
> So, that's the big ol' warning out of the way! On with the fic, I guess! I dedicate this to ilikedthewayhegaveback, who has had the (dubious) honour of reading each chapter as I write it and has been giving me the most amazing positive feedback imaginable. You rock!
> 
> EDIT: I am currently going back over old chapters to fix any minor errors I may have made when I first published this (and possibly to edit some bits I thought could have been done better). If you are an old reader re-reading this and you notice differences, that's what's going on- don't worry, I'm not about to twist it beyond recognition! This is more for my own piece of mind than anything else.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3 Music and lyrics in this chapter belong to The Shins.

 

" _Well, I guess it's only life_

_It's only natural_

_We all spend a little while going down the rabbit hole_

_The things they taught you_

_They're lining up to haunt you_

_They've got your back against the wall…"_

-'It's Only Life', The Shins

 

* * *

He expected his skin to crawl and fists to clench. He expected to feel angry, feel rage like nothing he'd ever experienced before. Sadness deeper than the depths of Hell.

But everything is cold and numb. Every step feels like walking through treacle, every breath a laboured gasp of frigid air, burning his throat and coiling painfully in his lungs. His hands hang limply at his sides, and he can't even bring himself to care about the bitter winter chill that nips at his fingers. It isn't important. Nothing is.

He doesn't even need to look to know where he is going. He's walked the path a thousand times, it's as natural as breathing to his unfeeling body.

He doesn't remember entering the cave. He doesn't remember fumbling for the matches to light the candles and sliding to the cold, damp floor. But still he finds himself gazing up at the crudely painted words on the rough wall, the back of his head pressed against the cool stone. The open flames at his sides do nothing to alleviate the chill in his bones, but he knew that before he lit them. It is deeper than the cold of a winter's day. It is the kind of ice that never melts, seeping from the frozen marrow of his tired bones and spreading through his body, icy fingers clawing at his organs, trickling through his veins, and he honestly believes that he'll never feel warm again. As the tears begin to roll down his cheeks, he is amazed that they don't solidify against his freezing skin.

Nothing feels right. Nothing feels real. He turns his glistening eyes to the second word, etching each letter onto his heart. He has to, otherwise it'll slip away, all of it. All those secret smiles, all those chaste kisses, all those nights sneaking away to this place. Their place. He is the only one left to remember them, now. Once he's gone, so is everything they had. No one to know, no one left to remember.

Choking sobs engulf him, and he doubles over, clutching his sides because he knows that at any moment his body could collapse in on itself. It's hollow now, a gaping cavity gouged out in his chest- nothing to stop the outside pressure from imploding his fragile body. Soon there'll be nothing left of him.

"Come back…" he gasps, turning his face pleadingly back to the writing on the wall. He doesn't expect an answer, but Christ, does he hope for one. It's still wrong. He can't be gone. Not just like that. This isn't the first time he's left without a word, but it's just so much worse than before because now he's never coming back, and everyone knows it. He isn't just in a different town or across the sea. All that remains of him is his body, probably lying in pieces across a battlefield, too lost and scattered even for a burial. Lost forever in a godforsaken no-man's land, half the world away.

With every passing breath he feels the cold stab of ice in his heart, feels his frozen ribs pressing closer together, mercilessly constricting his struggling lungs. Yet still the vacuum remains.

He knows that he should go home. But he doesn't know where home _is_ anymore. His own house hasn't felt like a home in weeks, every night a new fight. Nothing has been right since Rick left. Suddenly, he is alone again. He can't speak to anyone. He can't tell his little sister- he wants to protect her from the misery in the world, not drag her headfirst into his own pain. He can't talk to his father, not about Rick. He wouldn't understand. He can't even talk to his mum. She wouldn't know what to say, how to help. There's nothing she can say. Nothing to be done. He's on his own now, in this godforsaken village that has always hated him from the day he could think. The feeling is mutual.

With every passing moment, escape seems more impossible. So what if he goes away to college? So what if he moves to a different city? It won't change anything. It won't kill the memories. It won't stop this feeling in his chest, this impenetrable frost over his heart. It is a part of him, it's who he is. Even with Rick, even here in their special place amongst the walls that had witnessed their entire life together from childhood friends to cautious lovers, it was a feeling that never departed, just lessened. At least for short snatches of time, nestled against his love's side in their little haven, it had become easier to pretend. But he's gone now, and the den will never be anything more than a tomb where their memory goes to die.

Maybe it won't be the only thing to die here.

He doesn't know when he reached into his pocket, when his fingers wrapped around the cool metal. But it's there now, resting in his trembling palm. He doesn't know why he carries it around with him- he'd never had much use for it, it had just been a neat present from his dad. Maybe he'd always just _known_ , maybe that's why he kept it in his pocket. Maybe it was always supposed to end this way.

He raises his other hand to it, catching his breath as he slides the knife from its slot. The cold metal gleams in the candlelight, tongues of orange flame dancing over the polished steel. He lightly presses his finger to the edge, and when it comes away he stares at the fine red slit. Not the sharpest blade in the world, but enough. More than enough.

He slides into an almost trance-like state as he lifts the red-tinged blade to his left wrist. As the metal presses closer he finds his mind flying back to that old box of memories under his bed- the only memories of them that will last once he's gone. Maybe someone will find them and know why he had to do it. Maybe they will see the photos, read the letters and the love in every word, and know why he couldn't stay. He thinks back to that postcard, the one he knows better than the lyrics of his favourite song. He thinks of the tiny, timid 'x' beneath Rick's name, as if terrified of what could happen if the note was found by anyone other than its intended recipient. He thinks of the famous self-portrait on the front of the card, the colourful face of his favourite artist. How many biographies has he read of that wonderful, tortured genius? As the blade nips his skin he thinks of his death, the infection from the gunshot wound they believed to be self-inflicted. They say his brother had been the only person to witness the great Vincent Van Gogh's last words, the final thoughts of one of the greatest artists who ever lived.

 _"The sadness will last forever,"_ he quotes under his breath, gasping at the pain as the cold steel breaks his skin. The tears roll freely down his face now, but he doesn't care. There is nothing left to care about. As he drags the blade down his pale wrist he truly feels like he could let go. There is nothing left to hold onto. As he lifts the bloodied knife from his skin he stares at the seeping line it left in its wake, blinking slowly, uncomprehendingly at the wound. Not as much blood as he thought there would be. As the droplets roll unhurriedly from the crack the knife falls from his hand. He can't do the other one, not just yet.

Black. He knows it's not really black- he's seen blood before, seen it mere moments ago glistening on the knife's edge. But it looks black against his skin, dark in the dim light of the flickering candles. Slowly, sluggishly, he raises it to the light, watching in amazement as the crimson intensifies the closer he gets.

It's at that moment that he remembers Van Gogh's later works. Some were dark, sombre, melancholy, sure. Of course they were- his last great struggle.

Then there were others. Works of such colour and beauty they still inspire generations of artists, himself included. Works of optimism, of hope. Because that was one thing the unfortunate man always had- even in his last days, he hoped that he would get better. Hoped that one day he would be able to function again. As the black fades to brilliant scarlet, Kieren Walker thinks of beautiful colours, flooding the dark corners, blowing away the dust.

In that moment, he realises he didn't cut deep enough- the scratch, though long and angry, has not dug down to his vital veins, the flow will cease long before he runs out of blood to lose.

In that same moment, he realises that he can't cut any deeper.

The blood trickles down his hand as he stands up, but he knows it won't kill him. Whether it makes him stronger… well, that remains to be seen.

He doesn't bother putting out the candles. They'll burn themselves out before too long, as everything must.

He doesn't know what he's doing, where he's going. For all he knows he'll be right back in this place in a few days, or a few hours, and this time he won't hold back.

But right now, all his numb body can do is walk.

* * *

At that same moment, in a city several miles away under the same full moon, someone staggers on clumsy feet through the dark side streets, oblivious to the cold rain on his feverish skin.

As his foot slips on the slick tarmac he can barely even bring himself to curse- his tongue is too numb. He lurches off-balance, shoulder colliding with the hard brick wall at his side, but he's too far gone to care about the bruising.

He doesn't know why he's here, walking alone through the austere backstreets in the pouring rain. This isn't how it usually happens. He doesn't have a home anymore, but the grimy underpass he shares with three other addicts has been the nearest thing for the last two months. Before that there had been the bedsit, and before that there was the shelter. For a while before that there had been the youth hostel in Philadelphia, the place he'd returned to every day as the sun came up after another night of searching for something he would never find.

In the end the place doesn't matter, it's not like he goes there for the scenery. Wherever it is that he hangs his hat, usually he merely sits there while he rides out his high. Not tonight. Tonight he needs to move. Moving, however, is growing harder with each step.

He knows with a dull certainty that he's gone too far. There's no pleasure left to cancel out the pain. One moment he feels like his body is a block of ice, the next he feels like each of his nerve endings has been set alight, raging like a forest fire. His skin crawls over his flesh, he feels like he could just shuck it off and keep on walking. Maybe the cold air on his flayed body would be enough to clear the fog from his mind, but he's not even sure if he wants that. Maybe this is just how it's supposed to be.

He's not sure how long he walks before his knees give out. He feels parts of his body shutting down and he's powerless to stop them. He doesn't  _want_ to stop them. He wonders how long it will last. How long until he's unconscious? How long until his heart and lungs give out under the strain? He's heard of people dying within minutes of a lethal dose, and other, rarer cases in which the victim's lay awake and in pain for hours on end. Maybe it depends on the drug, or the user's level of tolerance. He hopes it isn't the latter- he'd have a long night ahead of him.

As his knees hit the unforgiving tarmac, grimy water soaking into the fabric of his jeans, he hears a muffled snap as something else hits the ground. He slowly turns his head, but the movement sends a fresh wave a nausea through his stomach and bile rises in his throat. As he retches onto the pavement, he stares forlornly at the battered remains of his phone on the ground at his side. He hadn't even realised he'd been holding it. He sees the green light flashing on the side. Flashing from a message he'd received two days ago. He hadn't even bothered to read it- he already knows what it says. And he doesn't want to hear it.

He reaches out and seizes the scruffy device, raising it above his head with what little strength remains in his limbs and dashing it once more against the ground. It doesn't break. "Feckin' Nokias," he mutters. Much easier to blame the 'indestructible phone' than to admit that his muscles are little more than tense strings of sinew at this point. He shoves it away, feeling satisfaction for a split second as it skids into a deep puddle before the pain hits again.

He groans, pitching forward and grazing his leather-clad elbows on the rough asphalt, skinning his cheek as it scrapes the ground. Just another dimension of pain to add to the already searing cacophony in his head. He rolls onto his side with a whimper as the pain roars through his veins. He pulls his sodden knees up to his stomach, curling in on himself as everything begins to slip away. Possibly for good this time.  _Hopefully_ for good this time.

_Your whole life. Twenty-seven years, a family, a future and the world at your fingertips, and you never once felt a thing._

As pain rips through him again, splitting him open and hollowing him out with deep, vicious strokes, Simon Monroe bows his head in a silent scream.

_Feel it, now, can't you?_

* * *

Kieren has no idea what he is doing now. As his steps carry him further and further from the den, he finds himself approaching the deserted train station. He pays no mind to the blood seeping through the sleeve of his hoodie as he stands numbly at the platform beside the abandoned ticket office. As the next train glides to a stop, he doesn't even bother to check where it's bound. All he knows is that he has to move, and keep moving. There's nothing left for him here. He boards the closest dimly-lit carriage, not really caring who comes round checking tickets. Let them give him all the fines they want, nothing can keep him here.

As the train lurches forward, he stares vacantly back at Roarton for what he suspects might be the last time. He raises his hand to his face, chewing on his nails and not much caring what any of the exhausted commuters think of the dark blood staining the sleeve. It's not their concern. Instead of shying away from curious glances or dirty looks, he simply closes his eyes and allows his body to sway gently in time with the click of wheels on rails.

He doesn't know what he's looking for, but it's not in Roarton. He doesn't know where he's going, but it's somewhere else. These are things he _knows_ , and right now that's all that matters. He doesn't even expect to find whatever it is he's searching for, but he knows that he doesn't even stand a chance if he stays at home and wallows in memories, taking tea with ghosts of the past.

If nothing else, he has to take a chance.

Because sometimes you just find things.

And, as the shuddering, feverish figure of Simon Monroe was less than five hours from finding out, sometimes things just find you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it- experimental first chapter! Let me know what you think, (I'm always open to reviews/PMs, either to talk about this or just talk in general) and if you want more I can keep posting it- for the first few chapters I can actually update pretty regularly as I already have them written (minus proof-reading, of course!), although the next few might not be published at weekends as I have some pretty hectic plans from the 23rd onwards (guess who's going LARPing!)
> 
> So yeah, really hope I haven't made anyone suicidal- I love you all so much!
> 
> (And don't worry, I will not neglect Broken Masks for this, it's just something I've wanted to write for ages and I'm finally getting it out of my system.)
> 
> Until next time! X


	2. People Don't Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hey, hey! Me again!
> 
> Well, I got some pretty positive feedback from chapter one so I'm gonna keep this fic up! But don't worry, I'm pretty sure the first chapter was the darkest/goriest of the lot, it'll get easier from here! First few chapters are probably gonna be pretty short and sweet, but I imagine they'll get longer as time goes by. I only hope the standard holds up!
> 
> For those of you wondering when we're gonna get an appearance from the delightful Amy- don't worry, not long now 'til we meet the beautiful genius!
> 
> So, here's a short chapter for you, just getting things started up! Enjoy!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3

Kieren isn't sure how long he's spent aimlessly wandering the unfamiliar streets- really it could have been any amount of time from thirty minutes to thirty hours. What's even harder to pinpoint is the exact moment when he realised how stupid this whole idea was.

He's in a city, that much is clear- but honestly he has no idea which. He was in too much of a trance to glance at a sign on his way off the train. He knows he could work it out if he would just look up from the ground for ten seconds, but he's not sure he can lift his head that far anymore. All he knows is that the trance has worn off, and he's kicking himself for ever thinking this was a good plan.

He still doesn't even know what he's looking for. It had all felt very real and poetic last night, running away into the night to search for the meaning of life. Must have been the blood loss. Right now his head is at least partially clear, and he's in a strange city with no money, no phone, and no clothes apart from the ones on his back. He's already getting funny looks for the dried blood on his sleeve (not that anyone's offered to help or anything. People suck). Really the only thing he has going for him is the Swiss army knife tucked in the front pocket of his jeans, still stained from last night. Handy if someone decides to mug him. Or if he wants to do something else…

The cold feeling is still there, heavy on his heart, threatening to drag him under. As long as he keeps moving he can squash it down, but he doesn't know how long it can last. The temptation to finish what he started is right there, tugging his sleeve, fighting for attention.

He takes a deep breath, faltering in his steps. He closes his eyes for a second before he starts walking again, ignoring the disgruntled noises of harried pedestrians as they're forced to walk round and overtake him. He sets off once again at a brisk pace, determined not to get bogged down in it again. He doesn't think he'll be able to talk himself out of it a second time round.

He could try to hitchhike, or wait until nightfall for another deserted train back to Roarton- less chance of getting caught if it's a graveyard shift, and if the ease with which he snuck a free ride last night is any indication the Roarton lines don't have the most vigilant staff. Or he could find a payphone, he might have enough change to call… someone.

He sighs wearily, running both his hands back through his hair. No, no one to call. He can't call his parents- what would he _say?_ "Hi, yeah, sorry to bother you but I tried to run away and now I'm stuck in a random city with no money, can you give me a lift? Can't miss me, look for the blood-stained hoodie." Yeah, fucking fantastic.

"Well, gutter it is," he mutters, kicking a discarded can in his path angrily. It clatters loudly across the paving stones, eventually rattling to a stop at the mouth of an alleyway several feet ahead. He's just walking past it, his shoulders hunched and his head lowered, when he hears another sound beneath the hum of morning traffic and the relentless parade of impatient feet. He stops in his tracks. For a few moments he hears nothing but the sound of stressed commuters and tyres on tarmac, and he's just shaking his head and moving on when he hears it again, clearer this time. It sounds like a groan, drawn-out and pained, and it's coming from the alley he kicked the can into.

He looks around wide-eyed at the people in the area- folks on their way to work, tourists, shop owners, all manner of people in easy hearing distance of the sound. Not one person gives it a second glance.

For a second, Kieren forgets about the ice in his veins as it turns to fire. They don't care. Not one of them. Not one person has approached him all day despite his haunted look and his bloodied clothes, and not one person is making any effort to discover the source of the cry. No one cares. People don't care.

And so, in his desperation to prove himself wrong, Kieren takes his first tentative step into the shadows.

* * *

He's not sure what he expects to find. Maybe a muttering tramp, or a drunk passed out against a wall. His anger-fuelled courage is rapidly deserting him, and he's just considering turning round and walking right back out when he hears it again, quieter this time. Weaker.

He turns his head to the sound, taking a few steps further. There's a corner coming up, and it sounded like the voice was just past it. He is just berating himself for probably walking into some crafty mugger's clever trap when he puts a hand against the bricks and leans round, and the breath rushes from his lungs in a horrified gasp.

It's a man. A young man, or young-ish, black hair soaked with rain and sweat and pale skin marked with bruises. He's curled on his side in a foetal position, hugging his knees to his chest with clenched fingers. It's hard to tell if he's conscious or just having some kind of tormented fever dream, but his eyes are screwed shut and his entire body is shaking.

"Fuck," Kieren hisses, dropping to his knees beside the man and pressing his fingers against his neck, hand shaking as he seeks out the pulse point. When he finds it he doesn't need to be a doctor to know that his heart isn't beating a fast or strong as it should be.

" _Fuck_ ," he mutters again, all other words abandoning him. He glances back at the street the way he came and looks down at the prone form at his feet. There's no way he can carry him- even the tall man's emaciated, half-starved body looks too heavy for him to pick up, especially in his dizzy, sleep and blood-deprived state. Seeing no other option, and suspecting that no one out there will come to help unless they see the evidence right before their eyes, he walks around to the trembling man's head and pries his arms away from his knees, hooking his own hands under his armpits and pulling him back towards the main road.

It's agonisingly slow, and he winces guiltily every time he's forced to drag the man's shivering body over jutting cobblestones or debris, but he perseveres. He can't just quit now, not when he's so close. He grits his teeth and keeps pulling, creeping ever closer to the light of day.

When he reaches the mouth of the alley several people stop and stare. He doesn't have time to be polite.

"Call an ambulance!" he shouts, satisfied to see one woman nearby whip her phone from her pocket and dial frantically. She addresses the person on the other end herself, and it's just as well she does- Kieren doesn't currently know what  _city_ they're in, let alone what street. As he gently lowers the man to the ground one of the café owners (who had been rather preoccupied standing around doing nothing earlier) bustles out with an ice pack. Kieren snatches it from his hands, kneeling down beside the unconscious man and leaning over to press the pack to his boiling forehead. He's amazed that it doesn't melt on contact with his feverish skin. He hears the woman say something about an ambulance being on its way, and vaguely notices another shop owner dropping down on the man's other side to check his vital signs, but either he decides he's fine or there's nothing he can do because he makes no other move to help him. Kieren tunes them all out, focusing only on the ice in his hand and the man at his feet.

He  _is_  young, he's sure of it now. Probably not even out of his twenties. His skin is incredibly pale- that and the track marks visible beneath the sleeve of his jacket suggest that this man dedicates most of his time to a certain indoor hobby. Undoubtedly what got him into this mess in the first place. Probably hasn't seen the sun in years. His face is grazed and muddy, but he can tell it's an attractive face beneath the blood and grime. He probably would have thought more about that if he wasn't depressed and the man wasn't dying, but there's a time and a place for everything. Instead he just keeps the pack to his head, his face set in grim determination. He could easily pass the pack to someone else and move on, but for some reason he wants to see this through.

His calm facade is broken when the man's eyes flicker open. Pale blue, they look glazed, distant, most likely a residual effect from the nearly fatal high. They search around vacantly for a moment before they finally come to rest on Kieren's face, locking on but not clearing. His lips move, and Kieren knows he's trying to say something but his mouth isn't cooperating. Probably deciding on a question, too.

_Which is he going to pick- 'where am I' or 'what happened'?_

Kieren is amusing himself by mentally placing bets on which clichéd climbing-out-of-unconsciousness question the man's going to go for when he hears his voice, a deep voice rasping out from cracked lips.

"Who are you?"

Wasn't expecting that one. Kieren stares blankly at him, and it's his turn to flap his mouth uselessly in search of an answer. The man's eyes are on him, and his gaze is more intense than a semi-unconscious addict's should be. Kieren meets his gaze, and his name is on the tip of his tongue as he speaks.

"No one," he says quietly, smiling slightly and shaking his head as he returns his attention to the ice pack. "I'm no one."

He doesn't really feel like Kieren Walker anymore.

* * *

The man makes a few more struggling attempts to speak, but he's too far gone to choke out much more than a gasp and some fragmented syllables. Before long the ambulance arrives, and Kieren finds himself handing the ice to one of the paramedics in fluorescent jackets that cluster around the pale man's shuddering body. He is ushered back while they do their work, and he rubs his numb hand on his shirt. He hadn't realised at the time how cold the ice pack was making him.

He stands around for a while as the professionals do their thing, listening to odd snippets of conversation. As they begin lifting the mysterious man's prone body onto a stretcher, Kieren turns his back and walks. There's nothing left to be done here. He feels a strange pang of loss as he walks away from the chaos, but he disregards it. He can't really trust his own feelings anymore, after all.

By the time the paramedic with the ice pack turns around with a question on his lips, Kieren is already lost in the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it! Join me next time, where we'll see a familiar face or two making an appearance!
> 
> Until next time! X


	3. A Journey Starts, A Hunt Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3, yo!
> 
> Another pretty short one for ya- but on the bright side, this is where we welcome the beautiful Amy into the story! So, hope it's good for you- I have a few updates regarding my other ITF fics, but I'll put those at the end!
> 
> So, here we go again! Enjoy! :D
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3

For a moment, all he can see is white. The glare stings his eyes, but he forces them open anyway, amazed that he still has eyes to open or a brain to do so.

It is white, but not in an unearthly way, not in a way to suggest that he'd somehow made it to the pearly gates. No, this white is stark, cold, polished to within an inch of its life. Glaring fluorescent lights reflect off the pale ceiling and illuminate the small room in a grotesquely unforgiving way. It takes him a few moments to adjust to the brightness, but he doesn't have time to consider the black spots in his vision. There's something else, something important…

He closes his eyes again to think and it hits him like a bolt of lightning, the image practically painted into his eyelids.

The man.

He hadn't seen him clearly, but he remembers the eyes- wide, dark, darker than any he'd ever seen, he was almost certain they had to be contacts. Concerned, too, staring down at him like he was afraid he might slip away, but why should he care? And his hair, somewhere between blond and red but shining like copper strands in the harsh light of day. What had he said…?

"No one," Simon rasps, his chapped lips sticking together slightly as the words roll from his tongue. "I'm no one…"

The words bother him. No one sticks their neck out for anyone without wanting something in return- money, favours, or at the very least recognition. No one saves a stranger's life and then remains anonymous, that isn't how it works. Right now, Simon can't tell what he hates most about the mysterious man- that he would save his life when he didn't want it saved, or that he would completely undermine everything he thought he knew about the world in the process. Although the logical side of his brain tells him he should probably be grateful for the stranger's intervention, he can't deny that he's completely fucking _livid_ as well.

He sits up too quickly, his head spinning and his back clicking. He moves as if to stand up before he notices something holding him back, and looks to his arm to find it plugged into an IV. He's contemplating ripping it out like they do in the movies (despite knowing what a horribly bad idea that really is) when he hears brisk footsteps enter the room. He looks up, blinking against the blots in his vision.

A stern-faced nurse approaches him, and he barely has time to rasp out an excuse or a demand before she's pressing him back against the pillows, checking his IV drip and telling him in a solid no-nonsense tone to settle down while she does some check-ups. He considers just following through with his original plan, but she has the vibe of someone who could get the upper hand in a scuffle even if he wasn't bleary-eyed and heavy-limbed, so he sits back and leaves her to it. More chance of them letting him out if he just plays along.

As he settles back onto the pillows and his head rolls to the side, his eyes fall on the doorway. Someone is standing there, hand on the frame for support. Her dark hair is windswept, and the bruise-like shadows under her eyes are more defined than when he'd last seen them, but she is as unmistakable as ever.

He curses quietly. They must have found his wallet, checked his I.D. and called her. Well, who else were they going to call? He turns his head away to the window, silently hoping that she'll take the hint. He hears the nurse direct some words at her, straight-forward observations designed to provide reassurance. Whatever she says, it does the trick.

He hears a sigh, small and sad that pierces him to the core, followed by the click of heels on vinyl as she leaves.

Maybe this will be the last time.

More than anything, he just wants her to give up.

* * *

As the dark-haired woman shuffles quietly through the sterilised corridors, she passes a room with the door ajar. Inside the room, a pretty girl with flowing brown hair nervously adjusts the hem of her petticoat, brushing her dress down self-consciously as she looks in the tiny mirror. She looks like death warmed up, but there's really only so much a bit of foundation can do when all's said and done.

A small knock on the door brings her to attention, and she plasters a beam onto her face as she turns to the sound.

An elderly woman stands in the doorway, and the girl smiles as she takes her in. The woman's hair is braided down her back, fine ribbons of black and lilac adorning the silver strands. In her hand dangles a pretty lace parasol, which she habitually taps against the floor beside her leather lace-up boots.

"Are you quite sure about this?" She asks, her old voice still as strong and sure as it had ever been.

The girl smiles enthusiastically, nodding as she turns to zip up her suitcase. "Yeah, 'course I am!"

"I don't want you to overstrain yerself," the old woman insists, the tapping of her parasol turning slightly nervous. "What with yer-"

"Nan," she interjects, turning to meet her grandmother's concerned gaze with a reassuring smile. "Cor, yer such a worrywart! I'll be fine- hospital's only 'alf an hour away, anyhow. Y'know, in case of…" she gulps, turning her face down to the zip that, as always, insists on getting stuck halfway round. "Complications."

Her grandmother doesn't look convinced, but she nods anyway. The girl smiles- she knew she wouldn't say no. No one wants to begrudge a dying girl a last request, after all. The zip finally unsticks, and she hefts the fastened bag off the bed with a small grunt of effort she tries her best to hide. No point in worrying her dear Nan any more than necessary. She turns around, beaming with as much energy as she can muster at her sceptical relative.

"So," she says brightly, waving towards the door. "Lead the way!"

As her feet follow the clicking heels and her eyes follow the swishing plait, she thinks of Roarton. The town of her birth, that nondescript little village, home to her mother's final resting place. A town she's never lived in, or even had the chance to visit besides the odd weekend with her eccentric grandmother, housed as she was in the next town over under the watchful eye of a protective father. It seems so ridiculous to her- that she should live so close to such an important place for close to eighteen years of her young life and still know so little about it. Well, something has to be done about that.

With a deep breath and a brave smile, Amy Dyer sets out on her first and final pilgrimage.

* * *

When he gets the all-clear from the doctors, it's all Simon can do not to leap out of bed and sprint from the ward. It takes too long, hours of tests, tutting over charts and disapproving glances. At one point he has several brochures about drug addiction and rehab facilities dropped at his side, which he brushes into the waste paper basket at the first opportunity. Nothing in those things he doesn't know already.

When he finally gets the stupid tubes removed from his arm he wastes no time in getting into his own clothes, not much caring about the grime that cakes his jeans and jacket. Anything's better than those ridiculous gowns they force them into. Besides, he has more important things on his mind- well,  _one_  more important thing.

When he escapes the cloying atmosphere of the hospital he inhales an enormous lungful of fresh (relatively speaking) city air, realising that it's a breath he never thought he'd take. For some reason his strange, pointless little life goes on, and so far he hasn't decided whether to be grateful or pissed off. Either way, there's someone he needs to find.

Unfortunately, he hasn't the foggiest idea where to start.

He closes his eyes, racking his brain for the answer. Where had he been walking? He has no fucking clue- it had been dark and rainy, his brain had been stewing in a soup of concentrated chemicals, all he knew was that he'd left the underpass and walked until he could walk no more.

"Oi, you all right, mate?"

It takes him a minute to realise the voice is addressing him. He turns his head.

A man, short and stocky with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, leans against the hood of a parked ambulance. The fluorescent bib on his chest is unfastened, and his hands are in his pockets. Simon realises he must have been standing still for at least five minutes with a pained expression on his face, and is just formulating an excuse when the man's eyes widen in recognition.

"I know you!" he exclaims proudly, taking the fag from his mouth and tapping away the ash. "Cor, they let you out quick, din't they?"

He sees Simon's confused look and chuckles. "I picked you up, drove the ambulance," he pats the hood as if he thinks Simon needs help knowing what an ambulance is. "In a right state, you were," he glances up the road in the direction Simon had been staring. "Waiting for yer friend?"

That gets his attention. "My friend?"

"Yeah. That ginger bloke what was crouching over yeh," he says, stubbing out his cigarette. "Din't see where he went, just seemed to disappear into thin air. Din't even leave a name- had to search yer wallet to find a number to call," he winks jokily. "Don't worry, promise yer we din't touch yer cash."

Simon advances on him, his gaze piercing. "You were there?"

The man looks taken aback, blinking in the face of the Irish man's intensity. "Er, yeah, yeah I was. Someone has to man the wheel, y'know?"

If he'd been in a more poetic mood, he might have considered how oddly perfect his timing was, how he had been released in search of his mysterious saviour just as the one man who could tell him where to look had decided to pop out for a fag. But right now, with the fresh air he never thought he'd inhale again racing through his lungs and only one image circling his mind, he asks the only question he needs to know.

"And where exactly  _did_ you find me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, we're getting closer to a proper meeting now! :D
> 
> Well, hope it lived up to expectations- you've probably guessed the identity of the mysterious dark-haired woman already, but I'll leave that up to you for the time being xD
> 
> Now, quick fic notice: Broken Masks is in progress, but it is also currently the fic I'm struggling the most to write. That's the annoying thing about sticking so close to the canon in fanfic- sometimes you don't feel you have room to move, sometimes you get paranoid about your fact and continuity checking, and all in all that can make writing a pretty slow process, especially if you're bursting with other ideas you wanna write. Frankly at this point I'm looking forward to the sequel more than the main story! But don't worry, not long now- possibly next week, I've got a crazy weekend ahead!
> 
> I'm also currently working on something else- a little AU, probably a three-chapter job, cute little thing about Kier as a PDS model (for cover-up mousse and whatnot) and Si as a photographer. Romance ensues, obvs. It's kind of silly but I'm actually immensely proud of what I've got so far and I haven't been able to stop writing, so the first chapter of that is already up with more to come- sorry, I know those of you waiting for BM are probably pretty frustrated with all the distractions I'm making for myself! xD
> 
> So yeah, that's about it from me- until next time! :D


	4. A Miraculous Vanishing Act

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's another one!
> 
> Hey, maybe we're gonna get a proper meeting this time! Have to wait and see, won't ya! ;) Actually, I think more than one meeting may be occurring this time!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3

He has no idea how long he's been walking, but he knows it's been long enough for the sun to rise and the birds to sing. Had he been in a more artistic frame of mind he might have marvelled at the sight, witnessing dawn rising over a strange city. Right now, though, it just serves as a grim reminder that he hasn't slept in close to fifty hours.

His fingers trail over a carved stone balustrade, and he slows to a halt as he realises what he's standing on. He looks down at the rushing water, leaning his elbows on the barrier and craning his neck. The current races thick and black below the bridge, and he wonders how deep it is. How far would he have to sink to be swallowed by the cold, cloying mud of the riverbed?

He knows that his feet must be covered in blisters and his stomach is turning from hunger, but he is struggling to care. It all feels distant now, all the aches and pains feel like they might as well belong to another body. There's enough turmoil in his mind that a little outer pain is really rather here nor there.

Instead of dwelling on the pain he just stands and stares, watching the currents sweep past. He sees a fallen branch, tossing and writhing with the tide as the icy river carries it downstream. He wonders how long it will keep going, how long until it sinks below the surface or gets dashed against the shore. The angry brown-black surge carries it along like it weighs nothing. It may as well be nothing for all the river cares.

He isn't even aware that he is leaning forward until he hears the voice.

"I wouldn't if I were you."

He knows that voice just as surely as he knows it's addressing him. He whips around, his hand still clenched on the balustrade.

The dark-haired man who owes him his life grimaces back, shrugging with his hands in his pockets.

"It's really feckin' cold."

* * *

After an hour long train ride in which she'd almost thrown up twice, Amy Dyer found herself once again in the town of her birth. Less than two hours later, and she is walking around it wondering how exactly a place can even  _get_ this boring.

Unfortunately, while the place had its fair share of pretty houses, nice gardens and rustic shops, no amount of decorative flower beds could diffuse the overwhelmingly bleak atmosphere. If she had to pick a colour to describe Roarton, she could only say grey. Medium grey. Not as clear and fresh as light grey and not as thick and sinister as dark. Just somewhere frustratingly middle-ish. And unfortunately, the people seem as coarse and colourless as their surroundings. She's already had several nosy and suspicious looks thrown her way. For a while she found herself wondering if they had some kind of local unspoken law about wearing coloured clothes in public, or maybe there was some kind of one underskirt limit no one had told her about. But the more looks she got the more she realised it just wasn't the kind of place that had much to do with outsiders.

She's just peeking into shop windows, silently chastising this toneless town for failing to uphold the ancient traditions of picturesque English villages (specifically the ones pertaining to creating a welcoming atmosphere to clueless out-of-towners), when she sees someone in the window of the nearby corner shop. She notices that he's taping a poster to the inside of the glass, and takes a few steps closer to investigate.

A grainy black and white picture adorns the centre of the paper, a photo of a ridiculously pretty boy with dark eyes and hair almost as pale as his skin. The word 'MISSING' is printed in stark capitals above his face.

A moment later someone emerges from the shop, and she turns to see the man who'd taped up the poster. He does an almost comical double-take when he sees her, and looks so confused she feels moved to help him out.

"I'm new in town," she explains, smiling reassuringly. So far the man wasn't giving her any weird looks, which was more than she'd had all day.

His expression remains blank for a moment before realisation dawns. "Are you, um, Dorothy Dyer's…?"

"Weird dying granddaughter?" she finishes for him, smiling at his awkward blush. "Yep. That's me. I see my reputation precedes me!"

"Oh, um, yeah. Dorothy, she, uh, talks about you a lot," he stammers, awkwardly shifting his stack of posters under one arm and extending his hand. "I'm Philip. Philip Wilson. Phil. Yeah."

Amy feels like she wants to be annoyed by his blundering way of speaking, but it warms her a little. It's pretty obvious that he's not talking awkwardly out of disdain or suspicion. She takes his hand and gives it a firm shake, smiling at him. "Nice to meet you, Philip! I'm Amy."

A small smile tips up the corners of his mouth, and his blush increases. Amy politely pretends not to notice, instead nodding to the posters under his arm. "Working hard, I see?"

"Oh, yeah," he says bashfully, fiddling with the edges of the papers. "Just on a kind of volunteer basis at the moment. New council elections aren't until the spring, so, um…"

Amy smiles, turning her attention back the poster in the window. "So, who's this bloke you lot are trying to find? Anyone you know?"

Philip nods, readjusting the stack of paper in his arms and standing beside her to look at the window. "Yeah. Used to go to school together. His parents haven't seen him in a couple of days."

"Well, it's not exactly a big place," Amy reasons, scanning the grainy photo. "Not exactly many places he could go…"

Philip shrugs. "You'd think. But no one's seen hide nor hair of him in two days, so he must have found somewhere."

"Yeah, must have," Amy muses quietly, weirdly intrigued by the strange boy and his miraculous vanishing act. She reads the text below the picture, and two words stand out to her.

"Kieren Walker," she murmurs, searching his black eyes for answers. "Where are you hiding?"

* * *

Simon didn't know how long he searched high and low for the mysterious man to whom he owed his life. All he knew was that in the time he'd been combing the streets the sun had set and risen again, the Earth continuing its endless rotation while he scoured its surface.

He'd started out at the place where he'd been found, practically sprinting towards the street the second the ambulance driver gave him the name. He found himself in the alley again, the street outside thriving as usual, like nothing had even happened. He'd found his battered phone in the puddle where he'd left it- and pocketed it even though he knew he probably wouldn't get any use out of it anymore- but found no other signs of his presence or the presence of his quarry. He emerged back out onto the street, desperately seeking information and finding it with the help of a startled-looking café owner (who prefaced the conversation by asking if he was okay or needed another ice pack. Simon wasn't sure he liked that so many people now seemed to know him without him realising, so he ignored the question and pursued his own enquiries).

He'd walked through the afternoon, the evening, the small hours of the morning, too fixated on his hunt to care about the insistent tingles reminding him that he'd had his system completely purged and should probably be doing something about it. That could wait a while, but if he let the trail of the mysterious man grow any colder he'd lose him for good.

Morning rolled round, and he finally struck lucky. A pair of girls (art students, at a guess) sat outside a coffee shop drinking pointlessly massive mugs of hot chocolate. The tall, green-haired one had flipped through her sketchbook, eventually finding a hasty line drawing of the man he searched for (while the shorter red-and-blond haired girl quietly rambled about how gorgeous his eyes had been. Simon would have stopped her, but he kind of had to agree). After they pointed him in the direction of a nearby park he barely had time to thank them before he was sprinting away.

And now here he is. Standing on the bridge in the park, and even from the back he knows who is leaning over the railing.

He wants to be angry. He honestly wants to yell at this stupid man who saved his worthless life. He is still convinced he would have been better off if he'd just been allowed to quietly die on his own time, without this complete stranger swooping in at the last minute. But he finds his anger tempered somewhat by two things. The first thing is the blood staining the strange man's sleeve, patchy and faded as though it had seeped through from the inside. The other is the way his body is leaning forward, creeping gradually closer to the rushing water as if he's weighing up the pros and cons of just letting himself fall in. It is these two factors that make him speak out calmly instead of aggressively when all he really wants to do is shout.

"I wouldn't if I were you," he calls out.

The man turns around, and Simon's breath hitches.

Whatever blurry image he'd had in his head didn't do the man justice. In person his hair glints in the rising sun, his pale skin practically glows. There were other things his drugged mind had omitted, things like the bruise-like shadows beneath his eyes and the sallowness of his cheeks, but right now he can't focus on any of those. All he can do is stare at his eyes.

"It's really feckin' cold," he explains lamely, pushing his hands into his pockets. "I should know. Taken a couple o' dunks in there, myself. Y'know how it is. Go to a party, one drink too many…"

The man stares at him as he rambles, and he remains fixated on his eyes even though his logical mind is telling him he should probably stop staring. Yes, his eyes are impossibly dark, he knew that much already, but there's something more. In the split second after he'd turned around, they'd looked distant, almost completely blank, something like muted despair shining from their depths. Though the flicker of recognition as he laid eyes on Simon pushed the darkness back a little he can still see it there, lurking in the shadows. His eyes seem more suited to a traumatised war veteran than an attractive young man in his prime. Eyes that show a lost boy, old before his time.

The remaining shreds of his anger dissolve as the man speaks.

"They let yeh out quickly," he states, his voice hoarse from lack of use (or possibly dehydration) as he looks Simon's bedraggled form up and down.

Simon chuckles before he can stop himself. "Y'know that's the third time I've heard that in the last twelve hours?"

The boy laughs too, and Simon is transfixed by the sound. He slowly takes a few steps closer, standing beside the man just as he turns around and once again leans his arms on the barrier. Simon follows suit, until they are side by side looking out across the raging river.

"Right state you got yerself in back there," the man says, glancing sideways at him.

Simon nods in agreement. "Yeah. Yeah, it was."

"Deliberate?"

Simon is taken aback by the question. It's not the kind of thing people usually ask, one of those sensitive topics most people would rather skirt around. He looks back at the man, and sees complete honesty and understanding in his eyes. It's difficult to look at, so he turns his face back to the water.

"Sort of," he mutters, looking down at his hands as he rubs the warmth back into them. He glances briefly back at the man's blood-soaked sleeve. "How about you?"

The boy tugs at the offending garment self-consciously, offering a wordless nod in response.

"So," Simon says, changing the subject after a moment of tense silence. "Is your name really 'No One' or did yeh think I was a cyclops?"

The poor man looks so utterly bewildered by the question that Simon rushes once again into hurried explanations. "Like in the Odyssey. When Odysseus gets trapped by Polyphemus and tells him 'is name is 'Nobody' so when he calls out for help the other cyclopes think he's just talking to himself… never mind."

The bewildered expression is still in place, but it seems to be tinged with amusement now. "Oh, okay. No, I didn't think you were a cyclops. I was just…" he shrugs, turning back to the river. "I was just telling the truth."

Simon opens his mouth to protest, but realises he has absolutely no idea what to say to that. He keeps his mouth shut, sneaking glances at the fair-haired man when he thinks he isn't looking. Initial awe aside, he can't help noticing how sickly the man looks. His slender hands tremble on the stonework and his puffy eyes stare across the water with a haunted expression. It all looks a bit too familiar- Simon can guess from personal experience that the kid probably hasn't slept or eaten in days. This brief pause at the water's edge is probably the longest he's been on his feet without moving the whole time. He looks like he could collapse at any second without the sturdy barrier holding him upright.

The logical side of his brain (which he seems to be ignoring with alarming frequency at the moment) says to just say his thanks and leave. It's not his problem, whatever the guy has going on is nothing to do with him. He sees younger kids in much worse shape every day. It's not exactly a rare sight, nor is it one he concerns himself with. There are some situations where it's best to just not get involved.

Still, the strange man had thrown that rule out the window when he'd saved his life. He supposes the least he can do is return the favour.

"You hungry?" he asks.

For a moment the man just stares at him, and it is clear in his expression that he's going to say no. Simon understands- clearly the kid has some serious bullshit in his life, probably the last thing he wants to do is go out for breakfast with a complete stranger he'd found drugged in a ditch. Still, Simon can't help feeling a little disappointed.

But then the man's face softens, and he looks both confused and disbelieving as he answers.

"Starving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it!
> 
> So, they're finally together! Now for the slow build :3 (Although maybe not so slow. Hearts will be opened in the next chapter.)
> 
> Oh, and I'm working on the assumption that in 2009 Philip was about 18/19 (seeing as he used to hang out with Kier and Rick when they were kids I'm just assuming they were about the same age). And Amy I believe was 21 when she died, so yeah they're not too far apart- and as you can see fresh-out-of-sixth-form-Phil is already trying to get his foot in the door of the local council! Oh, that boy!
> 
> It's a good thing I've got a few chapters of this basically written already 'cause I have got a couple of HECTIC weekends ahead! Not going to have all that much time for new writing- my next focus is another chapter of Broken Masks, I guess, I'd rather not leave ya waiting too long for that! Although TMSYC will probably be updated before too long, as well!
> 
> Well, until next time!


	5. Pure Coincidence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's me, again!
> 
> Right, once this is posted I'm dedicating this week to Broken Masks 'cause I've left it waaaayyy too long to update!
> 
> So, are you ready for some proper Siren interaction and hearts laid open over eggs and toast? Yeeeeeaaaaaah, 'course you are!
> 
> Oh, and plenty of references to drug use/self harm in this chapter, so tread carefully! Enjoy!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3 Some original dialogue taken from s2e2 in this chapter, so credit to Dom the incredibly talented original writer!

Why  _did I agree to this?_

He glances up at the dark-haired man seated across from him, but looks back down at his hands immediately as he feels the gaze returned. He doesn't know why he's here. As well as obvious reasons of the 'you met this guy drugged and unconscious in an alley and don't even know his name yet' variety, he doesn't particularly enjoy feeling like he needs some random stranger to bail him out of trouble. It's only now, sat across the table from the mysterious stranger at a slightly dingy diner, with the mouth-watering smell of sizzling bacon wafting from the kitchen that he remembers he doesn't care if he starves. Somehow that completely slipped his mind when he was asked to breakfast.

He almost laughs out loud. Breakfast. Eating breakfast with a handsome (not that that has anything to do with… oh, never mind) man off the street. He hadn't even made it this far with Rick.

And just like that, what remains of his appetite is gone.

He's trying to decide whether he could get away with just standing up and leaving when the man speaks.

"How long since you last ate anythin'?"

Kieren shrugs, fiddling with his bloody sleeve self-consciously. "Dunno. Couple o' days."

The man raises his eyebrows. "Well, that's healthy," he says dryly.

"Do I really look like I give a shit at the moment?" Kieren snaps, gesturing to his dishevelled hair and grimy clothes.

He looks him up and down. "Guess not," he says quietly. "Any particular reason for that?"

Kieren sighs heavily, returning his attention to his ragged sleeves. "I don't want to talk about it."

The man shrugs. "Suit yourself," he says, lifting his legs onto the seat beside him and leaning against the window languorously, shrugging out of his jacket. Kieren silently curses him for somehow having fantastic arms for an addict (track marks and bruises aside). Still, even if he's slightly irritated with the man he can tell that there is actually some honest concern beneath the indifferent façade, so Kieren decides he'll at least play with his food a bit before leaving. That way the man can consider his debt repaid and they can part ways, no hard feelings.

Of course, that plan of action only lasts as long as it takes to be served. The second he finds the sweet-smelling (if slightly cheap and cheerful) food right in front of his nose it's all he can do not to dive in headfirst. He's too tired for willpower.

"Slow down," the man advises, prodding at his eggs but making no effort to eat.

"Shut up," Kieren mutters through a mouthful of toast, coaxing an earthy chuckle from the man opposite. He tries not to think about what a pleasant sound it is.

"Thank you."

Kieren's head shoots up, and he realises that for the first time all morning the man's eyes aren't on him. Instead he's looking down at his food, pushing his baked beans around with his fork. He won't meet his gaze.

"What for?" Kieren asks, confused.

The man finally looks up, staring him down. "For saving my life?" he says slowly.

" _Oh,_ " Kieren says, realisation dawning. "Sorry, sorry, that was just kind of… out of the blue."

The man shrugs. "Yeah, well. I don't thank people much. Bit out o' practise."

Kieren nods understandingly. He isn't sure exactly why the man isn't used to expressing gratitude- it was either because he wasn't a nice person or he felt he didn't have much to be thankful for. At a guess, probably the latter.

The dark-haired man clears his throat, changing the subject in a transparent effort to recover from his moment of weakness. "So, where yeh from?" he asks in a feeble attempt at small talk. He clearly doesn't expect an answer.

"Roarton," Kieren replies. He doesn't really know why.

"Never 'eard of it," the man frowns.

"Well, you wouldn't 'ave," Kieren snorts. "It's a sleepy village in the middle of nowhere where dreams go to die."

The man looks surprised by his forcefulness. "Ah. I see. That why yeh left?"

"For starters."

"That why you…" he doesn't finish the sentence, choosing instead to nod towards the redhead's bloodied sleeve.

Kieren shrugs. "Yeah, I guess, among other reasons. I just…" he looks back down at his plate, picking forlornly at the remaining crumbs of toast. "I just… wanted it all to stop."

The man nods, and Kieren actually feels a little bit of the weight lift from his chest. It's not much, but it's something. The man makes no effort to tell him it was a stupid decision, or press him for details, and Kieren can't help feeling grateful for the sympathetic ear. He looks up from his food, looking the man up and down from his scuffed boots to his messy hair. "What about you? Why were you…" he thinks back to the previous day, the man shuddering in the throes of a drug-induced seizure. He doesn't know how to say it. "Y'know?"

He doesn't answer, just makes some vague gesture with his hand and turns his gaze to the window. Kieren sighs, returning his attention to his plate and leaning his head on his hand. He doesn't have much of an appetite anymore. The man must feel guilty, because a few seconds later he speaks again.

"Ever been so depressed it felt like every nerve ending in your body was exposed, red and raw?"

Kieren looks at him and knows that the man is already regretting his words. It's obviously something he doesn't like to talk about. Kieren nods to reassure him- it's a feeling he knows all too well.

Relieved, the man keeps on talking, his eyes on the cars that race past outside the grubby window. "Just sort o' feels like if I take enough chemicals, it can dampen down those feelings for a bit."

"Why so depressed?" Kieren asks without thinking. He knows that if the boot was on the other foot he wouldn't want to be asked, but he can't help feeling curious.

The man sighs, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the window. "Way I'm wired, I s'pose," he opens his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. "Since the day I could think I've had this  _idea_ in my mind. Just, this piercing notion that… life is completely meaningless. Me and everyone else, we're just treading water until our bodies give out and we sink back into the darkness."

He turns his head to Kieren, and smiles humourlessly as he runs his hand back through his hair. "When yeh feel like that twenty-four seven you might as well get fucked up beyond belief," he says quietly, and Kieren is stricken by the look in his eyes. He looks open, vulnerable. Broken. "'Cause you don't believe in anythin' in the first place."

Kieren stares at him. He feels like this nameless man has just told him something he's never shared before. It feels strange, the amount of trust placed in him by a virtual stranger. No one's shared with him like this before- not even Jem, who always closed off before the conversation could get too serious (one of the few respects in which she took after her father). Not even Rick. Well, that one wasn't surprising. Despite their best friend/soul mate status, they'd never actually… well,  _talked._

And so, because he feels grateful for the trust placed in him and feels like it's unfair to leave the damaged man exposed without giving anything in return, he finally speaks.

"I believed in something once. Well, some _one_."

The man looks up at him, and doesn't look away for a second as Kieren spills his heart open.

"But the fucking idiot messed that up," he laughs bitterly, shaking his head. "Or maybe I did, I don't know. Maybe we were just always doomed, two walkin' disasters. Maybe it would have been better if we'd just never met, but…" he shrugged. "I wouldn't have wanted it. Life without 'im. Still don't, but… well, here I am. I'm 'ere and he's not, and that's that."

He isn't aware that he's crying until he sees a tear splatter onto the table below him. He blinks furiously, trying to hold back the tides. For the first time in days, since he'd first started his endless walk and allowed the hunger and fatigue to numb his body, he feels the grief tearing into him.

"And he's not comin' back," he chokes, clenching his fist around his blood-stained sleeve. "Not this time."

His shoulders are shaking, he feels chilled to the bone. A day and a night of walking alone in the cold and rain finally catching up to his tired body.

He feels his choking sobs halt abruptly as something heavy settles around his shoulders. He opens his eyes, blinking through the tears. He sees something on the table at his side- a tattered black sleeve, limply draped over the table. He follows it up and finds the rest of the worn leather jacket draped over his back, almost swallowing him whole. He looks up just in time to see the man settle back into place opposite him, once again leaning against the window, this time without the jacket pillowed at his back.

"Better eat up before it gets cold," he says, smiling comfortingly (and slightly anxiously) at Kieren's tear-tracked face. "Get your strength up. Can't survive on grief and adrenaline forever."

Kieren nods dazedly, picking up his fork and prodding at his bacon. Something occurs to him.

"Kieren," he blurts.

The man looks at him, confused. "What?"

"My name," he says, blushing. "It's Kieren."

The Irish man smiles at him, a sad smile tinged with just a little hopefulness. "Simon."

Kieren nods, and returns to his food. Simon does the same, and a strange companionable silence falls over the table. As Kieren polishes off the remains of his rapidly cooling breakfast, nothing but the muffled sounds of traffic and chatter in his ears, he feels a strange feeling, deep in his stomach, small and shy but vaguely familiar.

Right now, sat across from this strange, broken man he hardly knows, he feels content.

* * *

Amy sighs heavily as she sits, hoping the damp wood of the bench doesn't leave hideous stains on her dress. She's getting pretty bloody fed up of this cancer nonsense. How is she supposed to do all the sight-seeing she wants if she has to sit down and catch her breath every ten minutes?

"Amy?"

She looks up and smiles as Philip walks into view. "Afternoon!" she says brightly. She looks him up and down, noticing the awkward way he's fidgeting on the spot. "And what brings you to this neck of the woods?" she asks conversationally.

He fiddles with his sleeve and blushes slightly. "Um, well, I, uh, forgot to pack my lunch, so… me mum's bringing it and we're having a picnic…"

He looks like he'd appreciate it if the ground just cracked open and swallowed him up. Amy giggles- picnics with his mum, how very cool and mysterious. "Sounds delightful," she chortles, standing up. "Better leave yeh to it, eh? Say hi to yer mum, for me!"

"You, er," he mutters, once again looking down at his feet. "You don't have to leave if yer don't want. I mean, unless you have other plans…"

Amy shrugs, pulling her cardigan tighter around her torso and glancing around at the deserted park. "I wouldn't say  _plans._ More like a long, formless search for something I'm not entirely sure I'm going to find…" she looks up, Philip is looking at her with a mixture of confusion and concern. She offers him a reassuring smile. "But, well, I s'pose I don't have to rush off on me wild goose chase just yet!"

The smile that lights his face is so heart-warmingly innocent she can imagine a puppy tail wagging at his back. He glances over her shoulder and his face once again falls back into embarrassment. "Oh, er, that's my…"

Amy turns around, and sees a smiling woman in a yellow woolly beret approaching them, a blanket under her arm and a basket swinging from her grasp.

Philip looks like he's working out what to say to his rapidly approaching mother. Amy decides to take the lead on this one- might as well, he looks like he's managed to swallow his own tongue at this point.

"Ms. Wilson, I presume?" she greets the woman brightly, extending her hand. "Hi! Amy Dyer!"

The woman raises her eyebrow at Philip momentarily, but returns Amy's smile with another just as warm. "Ah, yeh must be Dorothy's girl! Nice to meet yer- and please, call me Shirley!"

Amy nods, beaming at Philip over her shoulder. "Ooh, first name terms! Guess who's popular!" she sings, and his face reddens.

Shirley laughs, handing the basket over to Philip who takes it hurriedly (and promptly hides his face behind it). "Joining us fer lunch, Amy?" Shirley asks, glancing at Philip (is that a touch of hope in her voice?).

Amy bobs her head, clasping her hands behind her back. "If yer don't mind, Shirl," she says, elbowing Philip gently. "This one was rather insistent."

"Ooh, I bet 'e was," Shirley laughs, unfurling the blanket and offering Amy two of the corners. "Come on, then- plenty to go around!"

Amy beams, taking the corners and helping Shirley spread the blanket across the prickly grass. There are certainly worse people to have lunch with.

* * *

Kieren is walking again. He's really been living up to his name these past few days. Once again his thoughts are miles away, but this time focused on something different. He doesn't find himself considering his situation, thinking about the scab on his wrist or the knife in his pocket. No, something else is on his mind now. Or rather someone else.

Simon. Funny, now that he knows the strange man's name he can't picture it being anything else. He shivers- the only problem with clarity of thought was he could no longer shut himself off from his body and the November chill was an unkind mistress. He finds himself missing the leather jacket he'd politely handed over to Simon as they'd parted ways, muttering a thank you and receiving a quiet grunt in return. Apparently the man was just as uncomfortable with receiving thanks as he was with giving them. They'd parted with a nod and an awkward handshake, and Kieren had walked away in the knowledge that this spontaneous breakfast date/counselling session with the (possibly homeless) druggie had been a one-time deal. Now that Simon's debt had been repaid, at least partly, there really was no reason to see each other again.

Kieren doesn't know if he feels  _better,_ exactly. Less suicidal, sure. Slightly warmer with a full stomach, definitely. But not better, not by a long shot. One surprisingly therapeutic breakfast rant at the man he'd dragged out of a ditch wasn't going to plaster over the pain of a lost love and a lifetime of misery. But he feels different. A little less empty- like before he was in a bottomless pit with no light and clawing hands grasping at nothing, and after days of scrabbling for purchase he's finally found a handhold. It's rough and small, and there's no telling if he's going to be able to find enough other jutting rocks to pull himself from the shadows, but it's progress.

One thing's for sure, it's enough of a start that he actually  _feels._ Enough to know that he was disappointed to see Simon go. That was unusual- he didn't think there was anything left that could possibly disappoint him anymore, everything that could possibly go wrong had  _gone_ wrong. Surely nothing else really mattered?

He is so lost in thought that he barely notices the sun progressing in its arc across the sky, and by the time he hears the echo of his feet landing on hollow concrete the air is tinged deep orange, pink and grey clouds drifting lazily across the winter sky. He looks down at his feet, confused by the sound, then his eyes widen as he realises where he is.

For the first time in three days, he's managed to walk in circles. He's back at the bridge, he recognises the bare trees at its base and the stone balustrade where he and Simon had stood side by side, looking out over the icy waters.

His brow furrows as he crosses the bridge, settling slowly down on a bench just off the path at the other end. He doesn't know how or why he's come back here- he hasn't been paying particular attention to his route over the last sixty hours or so, but he knows that he hasn't gone the same direction twice. What would be the point of that? If he was still searching for something he was hardly going to find it if he kept searching the same spots.

He sighs heavily, bracing his aching legs as he prepares to stand up and continue his journey, when he hears a familiar voice behind him.

"Didn't think you'd be back."

He turns his head, and blinks against the glare of the setting sun.

Simon stands at the foot of the bridge, hands deep in his pockets and an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He takes it out and slips both it and the closed lighter back into his pockets, taking a few cautious steps closer to the bench.

"Not that I'm complainin'," he mutters, smiling down at Kieren and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, further ruffling his dishevelled black hair.

Kieren stares back at him for a moment, and the silence is deafening.

But before he even knows what he's doing he scoots along the bench a little, clearing a space at the end for the hovering Irish man. After a split second of hesitation, Simon takes the offer, their shoulders brushing as he settles into place. Kieren glances at him, and smiles.

Maybe winding up back here hadn't been quite so accidental.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-dah!
> 
> So, how was their first proper interaction for yeh? Feedback is always welcome! (Also I apologise if the AMmy storyline is a bit sub-plot-ish but I just wanted to feature her even though this is predominantly a Siren story. Her role may be small, but it's vitally important!)
> 
> Until next time, my loves! X


	6. Don't Let Me Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, another chapter, woooo!
> 
> Well, I'm glad these two are finally interacting- it's much more fun to write with them both in the scene! By the way I'm not sure yet but I think this fic's probably gonna round out at about 15 chapters or so. That's what the first draft says, anyhoo!
> 
> Well, enjoy!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3

Simon's eyes open blearily to the glare of the rising sun on his retinas. His back is aching, pressed against something hard, and he has a crick in his neck and a chill in his bones. He blinks slowly, habitually taking a moment to sort out his patchy memories of the night before and realising with a jolt that they aren't patchy at all. For the first time in living memory he'd gone to sleep without the effects of chemicals on his brain.

But because he can't quite believe what the uncommonly lucid memories are telling him, he has to check anyway. He feels a weight on his shoulder and looks down, drawing in a sharp breath as he sees the source.

Kieren's head is propped on his shoulder, copper-blonde hair splayed over the fabric of his shirt and lips slightly parted as he takes deep, slumberous breaths through his mouth. Simon sees the familiar leather jacket draped over the sleeping boy's shoulders and suddenly realises why his own body is so cold.

Simon's mouth flops open and closed a few times, and he finds himself completely at a loss for what to do next. Does he just stay perfectly still and wait for Kieren to wake in his own time? Does he nudge him now and hope he doesn't get angry? What happens when he  _does_ wake up- does he smile and laugh and brush this weirdly intimate situation off as a funny mistake made from sheer exhaustion or does it make him angry, or uncomfortable? Maybe he'll get up, mutter an excuse and walk away, and this time he won't come back.

Deciding that he's probably not going to like the outcome and there's no sense in prolonging the inevitable, Simon loudly clears his throat and shrugs his shoulders ever so slightly. Kieren frowns, his long lashes fluttering as his dark eyes drift slowly open. For a few seconds he stares out at the grass and trees and looks confused- lost, even.

Then his eyes snap fully open and he sits bolt upright, his hands flying up to grab the lapels of Simon's jacket where it hangs over his narrow shoulders. He looks at Simon and his sallow cheeks flush crimson. "Oh, uh, hi," he says awkwardly.

"Hey," Simon replies gruffly, rubbing the back of his head and looking down at the ground.

They sit side by side in silence a moment, and Kieren's eyes narrow. "How long was I asleep?"

Simon shrugs. "Dunno. Most of the night."

"Huh," Kieren says quietly, thoughtfully. "Weird."

"Not used to it?" Simon says, smiling almost fondly at the bewildered expression on the man's face.

Kieren shakes his head slowly. "No, not really," his fingers tighten on the leather and his eyes widen again, "Oh, sorry!" he exclaims, pulling the jacket from his back and handing it over to Simon apologetically. "Here," he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. "Hope you didn't get too cold."

"Nah," Simon lies smoothly, shrugging the jacket back on and silently revelling in the added warmth transferred from the other man's body. He can already feel his cold skin starting to warm up.

Kieren shoots him a small smile, and then they're right back to staring ahead and not meeting each other's gaze. Still, Kieren hasn't stood up and walked away yet, so Simon counts it as a win.

But after five minutes of sitting still with barely a movement between them, he decides enough is enough.

"You hungry?" he asks.

Kieren smiles, turning his head to look at him, and it almost feels like they're back on that bridge once again.

"Starving."

* * *

"Mind the tiger lilies, Tiger!" Amy laughs as Philip juggles the various brimming pots of soil and blooms in his overburdened arms.

"Doing the best I can!" Philip assures her, going bug-eyed as he narrowly saves a potted chrysanthemum from falling to the ground. Amy reaches up to help him steady it, chortling at his clumsiness, and their fingers brush lightly. Their giggles trail off, matching blushes and shy smiles as Amy hastily pulls away and straightens out her cardigan self-consciously.

"Thanks for this," Amy says sincerely, wrapping her arms tighter around the bag of seed packs in her arms with a smile. "Nan doesn't 'alf neglect the window boxes, place needs some fresh colour, smooth out the rough edges. Probably best keep the tiger lilies inside the house, though- I've heard they're not good for cats…"

Philip smiles, shrugging his shoulders around his heavy load. "It's no problem. I'm, uh, happy to help."

Amy brushes her hair out of her face, her eyes flickering to the stalls around them, stretching off into the distance. It was Roarton's semi-annual flower show, and vendors had come from towns over to hawk their wares. Amy is grateful for the distraction (and also to Philip for agreeing to do most of the heavy lifting. She's getting shakier by the day, and she doesn't trust her arms to support the delicate cargo). She loves her nan with all her heart, but the woman didn't half watch some terrible television shows.

"Y'know, all of these flowers mean something," she says thoughtfully, pointing at a nearby counter. "Like those geraniums- I heard they stand for stupidity, folly, that sort o' thing."

"Yeah?" Philip says, nodding down at the flowers in his hands. "What do these stand for, then?"

"Well," Amy begins brightly, pointing to each pot in turn. "The chrysanthemum's for optimism- always a good thing to have about the house!- and that snapdragon's for strength, although I've also heard people say it can mean deception… but these things are all relative, aren't they?"

Philip chuckles, and nods to the pot in the centre. "What about that one?"

Amy stares at the yarrow's petal clusters fluttering in the breeze, and a sad smile crosses her face. "Healing."

She looks down at her feet, taking a deep breath as black spots invade her vision again. That's what she gets for walking around all day with no breaks.

She hears a slight scraping and rustling as Philip rearranges the various blooms, freeing his right hand and extending it timidly towards her. With a moment's hesitation and a grateful smile, Amy takes it.

They continue their slow amble through the stands, hands loosely twined and hanging between them, content to walk with not another word to break the silence. She knows it's because he's too shy and awkward to say it, but Amy's glad Philip doesn't bombard her with "it'll be okay"s and "there's always hope"s. He knows as well as she does that it won't. He doesn't try to convince her otherwise, but he seems happy enough to keep her company in the meantime. It's a refreshing change of pace, although Amy can't help feeling slightly guilty at letting him get so close knowing she's more than likely to pop her clogs within the month. It's unfair on him, and she knows it.

Still, she can be selfish when it suits her. And he seems quite happy to let her indulge herself, just this once.

"Hello, Phil."

"Afternoon, Mrs. Walker," Philip greets, and Amy looks up at the drawn face of the woman standing before them, framed by short brown hair in a practical style and a warm scarf up to her chin.

"I don't s'pose you've…" she begins, shrugging her shoulders slightly, but she doesn't sound hopeful.

"No sign of him yet, I'm afraid," Philip says regretfully, his grip on Amy's hand tightening ever so slightly. "But we're still looking."

The woman nods, sad yet unsurprised. "Yes. Of course. Well, thanks anyway," she says quietly. "Take care, Philip- say 'ello to yer mum for me," she says, sending a half-hearted smile their way before moving hastily on.

Amy looks after her, cocking her head to the side. "Was that…?"

Philip nods. "Yeah- Sue Walker, Kieren's mum. "

Amy nods. She can see the resemblance- the boy had his mother's eyes. "She must be worried sick…"

Her heart goes out to the woman with the defeated stoop to her shoulders. Amy is already destined to be outlived by her father and grandmother, and even though she misses her mother with all her heart she is also strangely grateful that she's not around to see her slow decline. No parent wants to hear the news that they've outlasted their own child. So far, her own father hadn't even come to visit. Obviously it was easier to face from a distance…

A flower catches her eye, and she strides confidently over to the stand.

"So, good sir," she asks the man behind the counter as Philip jogs up behind her. "How much for that one?"

* * *

How and why it happened is anyone's guess, but somewhere over the course of the next six days, a routine was born.

Every morning, Kieren would wake up on that same park bench, and Simon would be there too. Sometimes their heads would be touching, sometimes their arms or their legs. In the first few days these oddly close positions had been the source of embarrassment, but sometime around day three they'd grown out of it. If this was how it was going to be, there was really no use in fighting it.

Every morning, Simon would ask if he was hungry, to which Kieren would reply that he was starving (although he occasionally switched it out with words like 'famished' or 'ravenous', just to mix things up). Kieren would hand back the jacket that somehow always found its way onto his shoulders, and they'd go for breakfast at that same diner where they'd first bared their souls over beans on toast. Simon would buy them bacon and eggs (and Kieren realised his stomach must have shrunk, because it was more than enough to last him until the next morning), and when they finished they would part ways on the doorstep until they inevitably found themselves drawn back to the bench by the bridge. What Simon did in the hours in between was anyone's guess- but by the fact that a week had passed and Kieren had not seen a single withdrawal symptom (not that he really knew what any of them looked like, but still), he could pretty much guess. Whatever new things he was cranking into his system, he must have at least been moderating his doses- when he joins Kieren under the setting sun he doesn't seem vague or out of it, he doesn't even seem any happier or angrier than usual. He's just there, a solid, calming presence amongst the hustle and bustle of the rush-hour traffic and the noise of a million voices.

So whatever it is he does, Kieren decides not to ask. He doesn't want to pry, and isn't even sure if he's earned the right to.

But one question does bother him. So one day, on their seventh night together gazing out onto the vast expanse of orange-dappled grass, he voices it.

"Why do you never go home?" he asks quietly, watching the man carefully from the corner of his eye. "At night, I mean?"

Simon glances at him, but then turns his eyes down to his clasped hands on his knees. "Same reason you don't," he mumbles with a shrug. "Don't really have one anymore."

Kieren runs a hand through his grubby copper hair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "It's not that I don't 'ave a home," he says softly, looking down at the ground. "There's just people there I'd rather not…"

He doesn't need to finish. Simon turns his face to him, and grimaces. "Like I said. Same."

Kieren stares at him, and Simon heaves a sigh as he reaches into his pocket. It emerges with a battered phone in his grip, and he holds it out to the fair-haired man. Kieren gingerly reaches out for it, holding it in his hand and staring down at the fractured casing. The screen is dead, cracked and waterlogged, but the message light on the side still flashes green. Kieren looks up at Simon searchingly, his finger tracing the flickering bulb.

"She's been tryin' to contact me for years now," Simon murmurs. "Haven't answered yet."

"Who is it?" Kieren asks gently, his grip tightening on the decrepit phone.

"My mum," he rubs the back of his neck- it's a nervous gesture, Kieren's seen it at least once a day for the last week. "She and my dad… well, it's fair to say they didn't agree on a lot o' things. And most of those things… most of them were about me."

He takes back the phone, staring down at the flashing light as it refracts in his pale blue irises. Kieren can't take his eyes off him.

"Been about eight years since he told me to get lost," he says, covering the light with his thumb. "Told me to pack my things and get out. Mum didn't agree with that, but I guess 'e won in the end. I was nineteen, so I s'pose he figured I could take care of myself. Don't blame 'im, really. He knew I used to sneak money out of his wallet. And he knew what I spent it on."

He scratches at the newest track mark on his arm, further irritating the puckered skin. "Only fair that he'd want me gone," he shrugs. "Gave me a chance to get off 'em and I didn't take it, so I took the second option. Easier than going cold turkey, anyway."

Kieren gulps, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. "I'm sorry."

Simons shakes his head. "S'fine."

Kieren's brow furrows, and he nods to the phone and the spot of green light flickering out from beneath his thumb. "So… why does she keep calling you?"

The dark-haired man rolls his eyes, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "Never stops. Has this idea in her head that I'm not completely gone. Thinks if she can convince me to come home I can turn things round."

"Is that such an impossible thing?" Kieren says softly.

"A lifetime of experience would suggest so," Simon mutters. He looks up at Kieren's wide eyes and groans quietly, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"One thing you should know about me, Kieren," he says, leaning against the backrest and turning his face up to the stars as they start to appear through the heavy city smog. "Is I'm the type of man who'll always let yeh down."

They sit side by side, heads tilted back to observe the dim glow of distant stars. Kieren blinks slowly, allowing the Irish man's words to sink in, and realising with dull certainty that he must believe every syllable. Despite everything, that's what he thinks of himself with not an ounce of doubt.

Kieren's hand moves slowly to his wrist, feeling the soft bandage that binds it like a brace.

It had been their second night together that Simon had turned up and demanded he hold out his hand. Pulling a new roll of bandage and some antiseptic cream from his coat pocket, he'd taken the time to slowly clean and wrap Kieren's self-inflicted wound, disinfecting the angry red scab with the utmost care. Kieren knew it had already been left alone too long and he'd most likely hold the scar forever, but at that moment it hadn't really mattered. For a little while, it felt like every brush of Simon's fingers over his skin wiped the slate clean.

The truth is, even after such a short amount of time, in which they've slept side by side six times and yet not even asked each other's last names, Simon has yet to let him down. And as stupidly naïve and optimistic as it is, Kieren doesn't see that changing any time soon. He knows it just as surely as he knows that he will once again wake up to Simon's cold skin, his jacket having 'miraculously' transferred itself to Kieren's sleeping form.

"I don't believe you," Kieren whispers.

Without another word, he lifts his feet onto the bench and lies down, back pressed against cold wood and eyes to the sky. He feels Simon's incredulous stare on him, but he doesn't pay him any attention. He doesn't know what else there is to say.

After a while he feels Simon's hands on his ankles, gently straightening his legs as he lifts his feet to rest across his lap. His hand lingers, and Kieren knows that he's also looking up at the sky and the feeble glow of the stars through the industrial haze. He wonders if he's ever seen the stars from the countryside, unhindered by the pollution of a million streetlamps. That was one of the few things to be said for Roarton- if nothing else, the view was spectacular.

His eyes flutter closed, his breaths deepen. He has no idea how long this can last, this strange sanctuary he's found with the mysterious man who owes him his life. The day will come when they part after breakfast and Simon does not return to their place by the bridge. But for the next week, or day or hour or however long it takes, Kieren is determined to make the most of every second he doesn't have to be alone.

He feels the jacket settle over his body, a hand lingering just a second longer than necessary on his chest, and he hopes Simon is getting as much from this as he is.

He hopes he doesn't feel so alone anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what d'you think of the story so far, m'dears? Would love to hear your feedback, it gives me sustenance :3
> 
> This thing is gonna end up a little longer than I previously thought, which means a pretty dramatic thing is gonna happen a lot earlier than expected- but I wanted to have some relationship stuff after the big dramatic thing, so I think it's worth it!
> 
> Until next time! X


	7. Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it goes again, babes!
> 
> I know I normally update on Mondays, but I'm off out tomorrow and might not be online much so I figured I'd just post the update today since it's written already :) A lot of introspective Simon this chapter, hope you like!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3

Kieren may be a depressed nervous wreck, but let him lie down for five minutes and the kid could sleep like the dead. Simon envies him.

He traces his thumb across the sleeping man's ankle absentmindedly, his face turned up to the stars. He remembers years ago, before they'd moved to England for his dad's job, those trips they used to take. Pack up the car, start the engine, and just drive and drive until they left the crowded confines of Dublin behind them. He remembers that little B&B in the rolling Irish countryside like the back of his hand. Even then, unpolluted by lights and traffic, he'd gazed up at the stars and seen them for what they were- dimly glowing hunks of burning gas, already long dead by the time their feeble light reached his sceptical eyes.

But a little part of him had always hoped that somewhere out there, in a place he'd never been before, the stars had to be brighter. One day he'd look up at the stars and he'd see them with the eyes of a poet or an artist. One day he'd look up and Van Gogh's  _Starry Night_ would make sense.

So he'd travelled. He'd been up and down the country, sleeping rough and searching the skies. When he'd amassed the funds for a plane ticket he'd taken off to the States, his mind a whirl of Hollywood dreams as he searched high and low for his own pocketful of stardust.

But it took mere weeks to realise there would be no crystallising moment. No artistic awakening, no electric romance. When after a year and a half he'd staggered off the plane and back onto British soil he'd turned out his pockets and found nothing but shrapnel.

So he'd given up. By the time he'd abandoned his dream of finding his purpose across the pond he'd been verging on twenty-three, and the only thing he had to show from his first two decades of life were a collection of track marks, a chain of one night stands and his entire life savings invested in a broken dream. The day he arrived home was the day he stopped planning ahead. No money from part time jobs (or occasionally more dishonest origins) went to anything other than immediate satisfaction. He saw no point in buying a nice house or good clothes because what do you care what the scenery looks like when you're too high to see straight? One night he'd barged back into the old family home, barely listening to his mother's pleas as he ransacked his old room for anything of value. The next day he'd walked away with money in his pocket and his guitar perched in the pawn shop window. He'd never looked back.

For the past four and a half years he'd lived life from shelter to shelter, never settling down and never making friends. He'd kept himself closed off from people around him- sure, occasionally he'd bought himself a bed for the night with sloppy kisses and drunken fucks, but snorting coke off some stoned twenty year-old's back hardly constituted a relationship.

But he'd never really thought about it like that. In all the years he'd been drowning his sorrows in chemicals the human body was never supposed to consume, he'd never really regretted any of it. What was the point in regret if life was meaningless?

He may not have been proud of who he was, but he'd never felt honest-to-God  _shame_ until seven days ago, when a brown-eyed boy had walked into his life and dragged his body from the icy waters at death's door.

He still has no idea who this man is. He feels like he's learning his life back to front, starting with his near death and working the rest out as he goes along. He has no idea who Kieren is- what makes him tick, what his hopes and dreams are (if he has any left), who his friends are or how he lives his life.

But what he does know is that, for some idiotic reason, Kieren trusts him.

" _I don't believe you."_

Kieren seems to think that he still has a chance. He doesn't think he's too far gone, a lost cause. Oddly optimistic for a suicidal kid.

Simon actually wishes he deserved that faith.

Kieren doesn't know what he is. He's learning about Simon in the exact way Simon's learning about him- back to front. He knows that he's an addict. He knows that he's suicidal, or at least  _has_  been. He knows that he's homeless and cynical. He doesn't know why.

Simon doesn't want to have to be the one to tell him that some people are just a lost cause from the day they're born.

The hand on Kieren's ankle is trembling. His system is still in shock- he hasn't been corrupting it in the manner to which it has become accustomed. He keeps himself sustained during the day when he and Kieren part ways. But when you've spent the last three years shooting heroin into your veins, cutting back to Class C's is quite the leap. It takes the edge off, but he still has a deep yearning for something stronger, something to fill his mind and numb the pain.

But Kieren has seen him at his worst once already. He doesn't want him to see it again. Ever.

He looks down at Kieren's sleeping form, and the leather jacket covering his narrow torso. The jacket that was the only thing from his past life he hadn't abandoned or sold- a gift from his father, before he'd given up on him. He could never sell that jacket, could hardly stand to take it off.

But for some reason he doesn't mind Kieren wearing it. It's two sizes too big and stinks of cigarette smoke, but it looks right on him.

He sees his phone poking out of the top pocket, green light still flickering. It's not going to stop for staring at it.

"Kieren?" he whispers. No response. Of course not, he's fast asleep and Simon had barely spoken. Maybe it's a good thing- he's not sure exactly what he wants to say. Maybe he should formulate a sentence first.

"Kieren," he says again louder, ignoring his own advice as he nudges the sleeping boy's foot.

Kieren awakes with a slight snort as his head jerks up. Simon immediately feels bad for waking him- most days he waits for him to wake in his own time. But he feels like if he doesn't speak now he will have lost the nerve by sunrise.

"Is that really what yeh think?" he says quietly, his grip on Kieren's ankle tightening in his anxiety.

Kieren's brow furrows and he blinks blearily in the face of the loaded question. "'Bout what?"

"What you said, when I told you I'd let yeh down," he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Oh," Kieren mutters, his eyes widening. " _Oh._ Um, well, yes?"

He doesn't sound all that certain. Simon looks at him as he sits up, the jacket over his chest sliding down to his lap. Their eyes meet across the bench. Simon sighs heavily, hand tangling in his greasy hair. He must look a mess. He'd never cared about that before.

"D'you really think…" he begins, cursing under his breath before trying again. "D'you really think people can change?"

Kieren meets his gaze and shrugs. "I dunno. I don't see why not."

Simon stares at him, and wonders if he dares to hope…

"I mean," Kieren says gently, turning his hazy eyes to the star-spangled sky. "Anything can happen, right? A week ago I was alone in a cave, with a knife in my wrist and nowhere to go, and now…" his brow furrows. "Well, okay, I still 'ave nowhere to go, but…"

He glances up at Simon and shrugs, smiling slightly. "Well, I'm not dead and I'm not alone. Gotta count for something, eh?"

Simon can't take his eyes off him, some strange inner strength shining forth from behind his sallow cheeks and shadowed eyes. There was something so extraordinary about this slender boy from the small town in the middle of nowhere. Some kind of impenetrable spirit beneath the doom and gloom, completely at odds with his wiry exterior and the tell-tale scar on his wrist.

"I've done some things I'm not proud of, Kieren," Simon says quietly, averting his eyes from the boy at his side. "Well, lots o' things. Stuff I'll never make up for…" he shakes his head, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward in the way he used to do when he was on the verge of a breakdown. "Maybe…" he screws his eyes shut. "Maybe some people're just lost causes."

It would be so easy to think like that. Get up and leave, get back to his cold, predictable life before this boy had strolled in and scattered it to the winds. Return to being that useless, layabout scumbag with more scars than hair on his head and more sex than sense. Return to his life of hollow pleasures, screaming at the void.

"I don't think so."

Simon looks back at him, and its only as he blinks back moisture in his eyes that he realises he's on the verge of tears.

Kieren watches him carefully. He's cold, shaky and nervous, his eyes are fearful and his body has never looked so breakable. But he meets Simon's gaze unflinchingly, honesty layering every syllable that rolls from his tongue.

"And even if they are…" he grimaces, shrugging as he gathers his hoodie tighter around his narrow chest. "Well, yeh never know 'til you try, right?"

For a moment Simon is assaulted by a new image. An image of himself, healthy and strong. Of his parents, happy and supportive. Of Kieren, bony frame filled out and dark eyes alight. Maybe…

He looks again at the green light, and sighs.

"I 'ave to go back, don't I?" he whispers, reaching out to slide the phone from its pocket and hold it between them.

"S'your choice," Kieren says, voice melancholy as he stares at the flickering phone. "But maybe you should take the chance while you've still got it."

He looks off into the distance, eyes focused on something far, far away. "They won't wait forever."

Simon stares at his face, feeling his wasted heart tug at the sorrow in his eyes. He says it without thinking, without doubting- every word feels right.

"Come with me."

Kieren turns those infinite eyes on him, and Simon thinks he can see something else stirring beneath the apprehension. Hope?

"I don't think I can do this alone," Simon says quietly, grip tightening on the battered phone.

It was a bad idea. Kieren wouldn't hang around forever. He'd go home, or he'd run away, or he'd finish what he started that lonely night in the countryside. The demons in his brain were still there, still going strong, and just as Simon knew that he himself would barely last a week before old habits lured him back into their deadly embrace, he knew that Kieren's monsters would catch up to him once more. Whatever they had now, it couldn't last. They were both too busy falling apart from the inside to keep their outsides intact.

But it felt so good to pretend.

When Kieren nods, clinging tighter to the worn leather of Simon's jacket, the Irish man feels a fleeting hope that perhaps things really will get better.

Just this once.

* * *

Brightening up Dorothy Dyer's neglected flowerbeds was proving more arduous than expected. Obviously the parched soil had been left alone a little too long.

Of course, a more likely explanation was that her arms were growing so weak that even yanking weeds had become a task of Herculean strength, but Amy refuses to think like that. Plenty of time for dying later when this place looks a little brighter.

As she carefully plants a flowering chrysanthemum in the freshly turned soil, she wonders if she could keep this up. Maybe if she can keep convincing herself that she has too many important things to do, just decide day after day that this is no time for dying, maybe it'd be enough to fight it off. Sheer mind over matter- busy women like herself have no time for something as silly and time-consuming as kicking the bucket. She's going to have to meet her maker at some point, but she's happy to keep pushing the date back as long as possible.

She straightens her back, peeling off her muddy gardening gloves and swiping a hand across her perspiring forehead. She momentarily regrets not taking her Nan up on her offer of help, but she's determined to do this. She needs a constant supply of work to keep her going- if she takes a break she might just expire. Literally. Besides, her Nan was talented in many respects but colour coordination wasn't one of them.

She stretches her stiff neck, wincing as something clicks. She's just chastising her bones for giving in so easily when she catches sight of someone in the street, walking briskly towards the other side of town with a sad frown on her face.

Amy's eyes widen. "'Ey, Mrs. Walker!"

Sue pauses and turns to look at her, confusion evident in her features. "Yes?"

Amy brushes the specks of soil from her dress, stepping down to street level and smiling shyly at the bewildered woman. "Hi, there- saw yeh at the flower show yesterday. I'm Amy!"

A flicker of recognition registers in her face, and Sue nods politely. "Ah, yes- Amy Dyer, is it?"

Amy nods with a smile, trying not to dwell on the flash of pity in Sue's eyes- pretty much the whole town knew about her illness at this point, she shouldn't be surprised that that's the first thing the mind leaps to. "Yep, that's me. I meant to chat to yeh at the show, but yeh moved on pretty quickly…"

"Had a lot to sort out, I'm afraid," Sue says, shrugging slightly. "Family y'know how it is."

Amy nods politely, but she really doesn't- no siblings, no mother and a distant father doesn't make for the fullest family experience. Still, no point in distressing the poor woman further. "That's all right, I just wanted to…" she says, crossing her arms over her chest. The cold rushes right through her, now. "Well, I just wanted to wish yeh luck in finding yer son- it must be awful, not knowing where he's got off to. I'm sure 'e'll be back, but… well, just wanted to say I'm sorry is all."

Sue is maintaining a polite smile, but a shadow has fallen over her eyes. "Well, that's very nice of yeh, love. We're 'oping fer the best."

Amy nods again before she remembers what she really wanted to do. "Oh, I 'ave something for yeh- wait here a second!"

She darts back to the open front door, rummaging through the boxes of seeds and pots in the hall until she finds what she's looking for. She picks up the potted blooms with the utmost care, ignoring the feeble complaints of her weary joints as she springs back to where a bewildered Sue waits on the pavement. She holds the pot out to her, nodding at her to take it.

"What's this fer, love?" Sue asks, taking the pot and looking the slender white flowers up and down.

"Saw it at the show yesterday, thought of yer," Amy explains, shoving her hands in her cardigan pockets. "They're snowdrops. Obviously the meanings of the different flowers kind of depends on who yeh ask, but I've heard they symbolise hope," she shrugs, smiling slightly. "Seemed about right."

Sue's mouth is hanging open slightly, as if the tenderness of the gesture has her completely floored. She composes herself, smiling warmly at Amy and carefully tucking the pot into the crook of her arm. "It's lovely, Amy, thank you."

Amy smiles and nods, offering a little wave as she returns to the window boxes. She doesn't want to keep the poor woman any longer.

"Amy?"

She turns round, cocking her head slightly as Sue addresses her, a small but grateful smile on her face.

"Pop round for a cuppa sometime, yeah?" Sue suggests, nodding down the road. "Yer nan's got our address. Drop in if yer in the neighbourhood, if you like."

Amy feels a slow grin spread across her face, and she gives an enthusiastic thumbs up. "Will do, Mrs. Walker."

* * *

"Fuck," Simon whispers, his hand hovering an inch from the wood.

Kieren is watching him from a few feet away, Simon can feel his eyes on his back. Honestly, he'd feel better if Kieren would just stand a little closer, but he doesn't want to admit that. Besides, he has no idea how his parents are going to react to  _his_  presence, let alone that of the strange boy he'd found on the street. (Okay, other way round, but  _still._ )

He glances back, and the reassuring nod he receives from Kieren is all he needs to take a deep breath and rap his knuckles against the peeling wood, three sharp taps ringing out in the quiet morning hum of the city.

It takes about ten seconds for the door to open- although it could have easily been ten years. A familiar face appears in the gap. A round, careworn face surrounded by a shock of curly black hair. Wide eyes go wider as they settle on him, and the door swings fully open.

He looks down at the shocked face, his hands burrowing deeper into his pockets. He can barely look her in the eye as he gulps down the nervous bile in his throat and speaks.

"Hi, Mum," he murmurs.

He sees someone else appear in the hall behind her- a tall figure, slender but intimidating. He knows that figure well. He braces himself for a shout, or a slap, or anything really. He deserves it.

What he isn't prepared for as his mother steps closer is her arms around his waist, her head pressed against his shoulder as she pulls him in tight.

Warmth creeps through his body from the contact, and after he recovers from the shock he drapes his own arms carefully over her shoulders, pressing his chin to the top of her head and his hands to her back. He can't remember the last time they were this close.

She sobs slightly against his chest.

And more surprisingly, so does he.

They stand together like that for a while, carefully supporting each other, trying to make up for almost ten years of lost contact in the space of a minute. His father stares at them for a moment, but makes no move to stop it happening. As Iain Monroe's shadowy figure disappears back into the house, Simon pulls gently away from his mother's embrace, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders.

Lana Monroe smiles up at him, tears in her blue eyes, hands resting on his face like she's not entirely sure that he's real. She smooths back his hair, like she used to do when he was just a boy on his way to school, hair rough from another sleepless night.

"You going to stay around a while this time,  _alanna?_ " She asks softly, a hopeful smile on her face.

Simon nods cautiously, but doesn't say a word. He doesn't want to get her hopes up.

Something catches her eye over his shoulder, and she frowns. "Who's this?"

He turns his head, and once again finds himself face to face with Kieren. The fair-haired man is shifting uneasily from foot to foot, fingers fiddling self-consciously with his blood-stained sleeve. He'd talked about taking it off, but Simon had insisted he leave it on- he'd catch his death in the harsh November chill, otherwise. Simon meets his nervous brown eyes and smiles reassuringly, turning back to his mother.

"That's Kieren," he says softly. He leans down, whispering into her ear. "He called the ambulance."

He doesn't need to elaborate, doesn't need to tell her when or where, she's knows what day he's talking about. She stares at the strange, nervous boy in the tattered clothes, glancing between the two of them like she's trying to work something out.

Then she walks past Simon, lightly pushing him towards the door on her way out. She approaches Kieren slowly, as if afraid he might bolt. It's a reasonable assumption- the boy has a wild look in his eyes these days. Simon glances back into the hallway, hoping that his father doesn't come storming out and demanding that they both leave.

Lana reaches out slowly and takes Kieren's wrists, tugging his hands from his pockets and holding them gently in her own. She smiles warmly, and gives him a gentle tug towards the door.

"Come on, laddie," she says warmly, ushering him into the house. "Let's get some food in yeh- you're all skin and bones!"

Simon watches Kieren's face, dazed and relieved as Lana gently ushers him into the shelter of the family home.

Despite his doubts and the ever lingering itch beneath his skin, he feels a smile tug at the corners of his lips.

Maybe Kieren was onto something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is! :D
> 
> The original plan for this fic had these two literally getting together right at the very end, but I've tweaked that a little 'cause I actually wanna write a bit of relationship stuff with them. So don't worry, not long now! I want them to have a couple of chapters together before... stuff.
> 
> (Oh, and 'alanna'- Irish form 'a leanbh'- as far as I can work out is a term of endearment meaning 'my child', I'd love to put more things like that in but I'll probably keep it to a minimum as I know fuck all about the Irish language xD)
> 
> *ahem* Anyway, until next time! :D X
> 
> *dissolves into the shadows*


	8. On Your Own...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's me again!
> 
> Well, here we are once again- it looks like things may be taking a turn for the worse :/ But don't worry, Siren-ness soon, I promise!
> 
> A lot of this chapter is about drug withdrawal, so warnings for pain/paranoia/vomit and all that gross stuff.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3

Two days ago, Simon had taken his first step over the threshold of his family home in nearly four years. And to his immense surprise, no one had cursed, slapped or kicked him out yet (although he got the feeling his mother was probably holding his dad back from some nasty insults).

Now he is sat at the kitchen table, digging into the hearty breakfast omelette his mum had put before him with a smile. These past couple of days he'd been hungrier than he'd ever thought possible- but he tried to keep his snacking discreet. He didn't want anyone to notice…

His hands are trembling. He bites his lip and puts his fork down, bracing them on the table a moment until the shaking lessens. Fortunately Kieren's attention is on the TV across the room and he doesn't see the action.

Simon picks his fork up again, smiling as Kieren glances at him. The redhead smiles back, taking another enormous bite of toast. The younger man's face was filling out nicely, the sallowness gone from his cheeks, although the shadows under his eyes were impossible to budge. It didn't matter that he was now sleeping nights in a proper bed under warm blankets in the guest room- sometimes Simon still wakes up to hear him crying softly through the wall. So far he hasn't found the courage to go next door and sit with him through his depressions (or night terrors, whichever they are). He doesn't know what he would say, anyway.

So he just smiles at the tired boy every morning, makes conversation about films or books or music (usually music), and tries to pretend he didn't hear anything. Sometimes he sees Kieren glancing at him from the corner of his eye with a little smile, and he thinks in a funny way the boy's grateful to him for not bringing it up.

Something twists in his stomach. Simon puts the fork down again, resting his hands on the table and taking a deep breath as discreetly as possible, glancing up to make sure the younger man isn't watching. He needs a moment.

Two days ago on the 16th of November, he was reunited with his family.

It was also the day he stopped taking drugs of any sort. His body would not let him hear the last of that.

By this point any residual effects from the weed he'd been smoking to tide himself over had worked their way out of his system, and good God he was craving more. But he couldn't. He'd promised himself: no more.

He wants to prove to his father, to himself, to the  _God_ if he's there, that he  _can_ change. Wants to prove himself wrong.

He wants to prove his mother and Kieren right.

He takes another deep breath, fighting against the sickness rising in his throat. This is how it always goes. One second he has a raging appetite, devouring so much food that for a moment he can feel full again, full of  _something,_ even if it's not as strong or satisfying as he'd like. Then suddenly it's gone, and he feels like his entire stomach is clawing its way up his gullet. When this happens he has to just sit still, hope it passes before anyone asks him to move.

"Simon?"

He looks up. Kieren is watching him, his brow furrowed. "Y'alright?"

Simon can't risk opening his mouth, so he just gives a tight smile and a curt nod. Kieren doesn't look convinced, but he turns his attention away. He knows now when he's not going to get a straight answer out of him.

Simon has thought about telling him so many times. It's so tempting- maybe if someone else knew he wouldn't have to fight it all on his own.

But he won't say a word.

He can picture sneers from his father- he would never believe he could see it through. He probably thinks Simon is still injecting himself every night when they're all in bed, riding out his highs in the solitude of his childhood bedroom. He's probably only refrained from raiding his room to find his stash because Lana tells him to leave him be. God, he really doesn't appreciate his mother enough.

No, better to wait till he's past the worst stage, when the siren call of old habits is long out of earshot. This way if (when) he fails in his mission at least no one'll be any the wiser.

He hears voices and looks up to see Kieren smiling, chatting with a tired but amiable expression to Lana as she leans over to pick up his empty plate. She smiles back, patting his shoulder and smoothing down his hair. Those two were getting along like a house on fire- well, Kieren was practically a saint in his mother's eyes for his role in Simon's return, and she was doing everything she could to draw the timid boy out of his shell.

As the sickness fades further into the background and Lana sits down in the seat at Kieren's side, Simon allows himself a small smile.

He won't let them see him like this. Sick, broken, tearing himself apart.

Instead he just holds on to the thought of how they'll look at him when he gets through. The pride on their faces. The ridiculous grin on Kieren's lips when he walks up to them and announces that he's clean, that he walked through the fire and made it to the other side a new man. The shock on his father's face, and the feeling of accomplishment as he finally takes a stand and says  _fuck you_ to the uncaring universe.

He will get through this.

And in the meantime he'll smile at his mother, eat the food she cooks him, talk to Kieren about all those depressing indie bands he likes, trawl around the music shops with him while they point out their favourite albums to each other knowing full well that they have no money to buy any of them. It doesn't matter, in the end- they may be loitering like the outcast drains on society that they are, but at least they have each other. For now, at least.

A wave of heat rushes through his body. His nails dig into his wrist. He glances at their faces, and is relieved to see they're still smiling. They didn't see.

He's getting through this. And he's getting through it alone.

* * *

Amy pulls her coat tighter around her chest, shivering in the biting cold. She remembers the days when her body was strong and healthy, and a chilly day like this posed not the slightest problem for her hot-blooded, hot-headed nature. She thinks of her body as it is now and thinks she might as well be made of tissue paper, being tossed about in the wintry gusts. She's amazed the wind doesn't just pick her up and carry her out across the sea.

She misses the warmth of the Walker house, the comforting heat of the tea she'd sipped. And boy, did Sue Walker make a good cuppa.

It was worth the cold trek through bleak streets to see that lovely lady's face brighten, even if only a little. Obviously a nice, relaxed cuppa with the neighbours wasn't a luxury the woman had been enjoying recently. She couldn't blame her- she'd be too anxious for tea parties, too, if it was her family falling apart.

From what she'd gathered in exchanges shared over tea and biscuits in the last few days, Kieren's disappearance was only the start of their problems. Poor Steve had been off his food, too sick with worry to even speak half the time. And then there was Jem, poor little Jem- only fourteen, bless her. Sue hadn't the foggiest clue what to do with her. Ever since her big bro's vanishing act she'd been a volatile ball of unbridled rage.

Amy listens to Sue's problems, nods along and offers comfort where needed, but she is plagued by the knowledge that aside from offering company and empty platitudes there's not a bloody thing she can do to help. She can't say anything to drag Steve out of his stupor, she can't reason with a girl who won't even acknowledge her existence, she can't even offer to help in the bloody search efforts since walking along flat ground for five minutes or more feels like scaling the upper slopes of Everest. Bloody Hell, she's useless.

A sound drifts towards her on the breeze. She freezes in her steps, and listens carefully. That almost sounded like…

There it is again. A small, choked sob. Almost inaudible- someone trying to hold their tears in, the slightest noises slipping through the cracks.

Slowly, quietly, Amy walks towards the sound.

She finds herself at a sheltered bus stop, the old glass practically opaque with winter frost. She hears the sound again- it's coming from inside.

She takes a step closer and gently pokes her head around the edge.

Jem Walker sits on the cold metal bench, hands clasped between her shaking knees and shoulders trembling. She's swaddled in a jacket, black leather and at least three sizes too big, and Amy recognises those studs. She's seen a picture in the Walkers' house- that blonde-haired, brown-eyed boy, pulling a deliberately bored expression and wearing a punky jacket that didn't match his personality. Apparently the poor lad was going through a phase.

Amy raises her bony hand and knocks quietly three times on the side of the shelter.

Jem's head shoots up, and she swipes furiously at her eyes. "Wha' d'you want?" she sniffs angrily, her eyeliner smudging across her hand.

Amy watches her carefully, and every angry comment and hair-raising tale from Sue suddenly makes sense. She looks at Jem's dark clothes and thick make-up and derisive sneer, and smiles softly. She knows a defence mechanism when she sees one.

"Wanna talk about it, pal?" she asks, softly but cheerfully.

Jem scowls at her. "No, ta,  _pal,_ " she imitates sarcastically. But behind the angry expression there's embarrassment and fear at being found out.

"I was just heading home for a cuppa," Amy says, shrugging. "Wondered if you'd care to join me?"

Jem stares at her like she's lost her mind. "Nah, yer all right," she drones, crossing her arms and turning her face away.

Looks like she's going to have to up the ante. "How old're you, again?"

Jem's scowl deepens. "What's it to yeh?"

Amy leans against the barrier, crossing her arms and shrugging. "Just wonderin'. Got some bottles o' cider in the fridge that've just been waiting to be drunk- don't s'pose yer old enough, are yeh?"

The mention of cider had Jem's attention, but her frown remains. "No, s'pose not."

"Then again, I'm not even s'posed to be drinking booze- messes with the medication," Amy ponders out loud. She turns her head slightly to Jem with a mischievous smirk. "But I won't tell if you don't."

Jem stares at her for a long moment.

Then she sighs, standing up and slouching over. "Fine.  _One_ drink. And if you tell Mum I'll kill yeh."

"Don't need to tell me twice," Amy says, raising her hands in mock surrender as Jem powers past her. She scurries to keep up, and feels a drop of rain land on her nose. "Oops- best get moving, pal!"

" _Stop calling me that!_ " Jem complains loudly as Amy unfurls her umbrella.

"Yes, boss!" Amy chirps, holding the umbrella out as more drops begin to fall.

Jem doesn't stop glaring the whole walk back.

Doesn't stop her stepping under the umbrella and sharing the shelter, though.

* * *

Another two days have passed, and with every minute Simon feels himself crumbling.

He spends more and more of his days in his bedroom, locked away from the concerned gazes of his mother and friend. God only knows what they think he's really doing, but all he tells them is that he's tired. He sees the fear on his mother's face- the last time he retreated into himself like this was the first time he discovered the joys of narcotics. He wishes he could tell her not to worry, tell her everything's going to be okay, but he can't get her hopes up. Not yet, not until the worst is over.

The clock counts off the seconds on the table, and in the silence of his room the ticks and tocks ring out like a metronome. Do digital clocks even make sound? Probably not. It's his brain working overtime again. The room is dark, illuminated only by the yellow glow of a streetlamp through the drapes. He can't turn the light on- can't let the others know he's still awake. Besides, even the dim glow of the clock figures sears into his sensitive retinas like the blazing glow of Sauron's Eye. At this point in the withdrawal process he'd happily throw  _himself_  into the fires of Mount Doom, to be honest.

Another wave of heat envelopes him and he grits his teeth, hands fisting in the sheets. Making up Lord of the Rings similes isn't going to distract him from this. His skin is prickling in the cold air, feeling like condensation sizzling on a hot surface. He wishes  _he_  could evaporate that easily. He wants to throw his blankets off, but he can't- he knows the second he does that his body will be plunged back into icy cold, and he has no desire to fumble around in the dark for discarded sheets.

Something hot courses down his cheek, burning a trail on his already scalding skin. He swipes at it furiously. He won't cry- he doesn't have time for fucking  _tears_ , of all things. He's a grown man, he's stabbed needles into his arms and been in too many fights to count. He didn't cry when that violent drunk in Birmingham with fists like boulders had dislocated his shoulder in a single hit, he won't cry now.

His stomach roils, his throat burns. He sits bolt upright, snatching up the bucket on the floor at his bedside and holding it in his lap as he bows his head. He knows what comes next.

He wishes the light could have turned on at any other time. He wishes he hadn't been found out just as he was emptying the contents of his stomach. As it is all he can do is screw his eyes shut as he pukes up his guts, hoping that his haggard face is hidden by the edge of the bucket. He doesn't know who is standing in the doorway, but he's happy to put off finding out.

The bed dips slightly. A shaky hand rests on his back, rubbing small circles, another reaches up to push his greasy fringe from his eyes. Too small and gentle for his father, but definitely too big for his mother.

When the rancid flow slows to a halt and he can breathe through his mouth again, he slowly raises his head with the guilty expression of a child who's been caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

Kieren stares back at him, brown eyes wide with concern and mouth set in a frown. Simon looks away again- God, why did it have to be Kieren?

"How long's this been goin' on?" the younger man asks, hand still unconsciously rubbing Simon's back.

"Few days," Simon answers vaguely, hoping against hope that the boy will just drop it and leave. No such luck.

"What's wrong?" Kieren asks quietly, and Simon immediately feels guilty- of course the kid has no idea, probably never had to deal with anything like this his whole life. Simon hesitates a moment- Kieren doesn't know what he's looking at. He could easily make up some bullshit excuse about a virus or food poisoning, ask him to stay away for a few days so he doesn't catch whatever he's got. Simple.

"Stopped using," Simon mutters, surprising himself with the truth. "Haven't had anythin' in five days or so…"

"Had anything…?" Kieren murmurs. His eyes widen, realisation dawns. " _Oh!_ Oh, fuck, Simon, why didn't yeh say somethin'?"

Simon averts his eyes and doesn't answer- to be honest, he thinks Kieren probably knows him well enough to work it out. Sure enough, he hears a soft, exasperated sigh from his side as the boy reaches out to take the bucket from his hands. Simon flinches away slightly, certain for a split second that the gentle man is going to lash out, strike him with words or fists. He pushes the thought away- it's the withdrawal talking. Paranoia, that's all. Kieren won't hurt him. Wouldn't hurt a fly.

"Wait here," the redhead orders, standing up with the bucket. "I'm gonna get this cleaned out for yeh."

"Kieren, you don't 'ave to-"

A sharp look from Kieren shuts him right up, he cringes away again for a second before keeping himself in check. "Stay," Kieren reiterates, closing the door behind him as he heads to the bathroom. Simon's relieved to hear that he treads softly and doesn't slam doors- for the moment, at least, he'll help him keep his secret. It won't last, but it's something.

* * *

He can't breathe- something is wrapped around his chest, tightening its grip, his ribs strain under the pressure. He fights, bites, kicks, but it only worsens.

He jerks awake, his breath shooting out in shallow pants. Another dream. He dreams of pain in his arms and pleasure in his veins. They feel so  _real_ when he's there, and then he once again awakes to the dark of a room he's long outgrown and what feels like a fist squeezing the air from his lungs.

He looks down at the pillow and finds it stained with blood. Touches his fingers to his face and they come away red- another nosebleed. God, he's sick of these things.

It's cold. Jesus, so fucking cold. He doesn't know if it's the November chill or just his blood running cold, but it's unbearable. He fumbles for his sheets and finds them around his feet, kicked away in a fever. He desperately yanks the sweat-soaked blankets back up, swaddling himself. He shudders and shakes, screwing his eyes shut even though he knows that he's not going to get another wink of sleep tonight.

Something touches his forehead, the lightest pressure on his slick skin. He opens his eyes slightly, and sees a vague silhouette in the gloom. The thing, a slim hand, pulls away, and the figure reaches down beside its chair, stone-cold fear grips Simon as he wonders what it's going to be holding when it returns. Maybe a knife, maybe a needle, maybe a pillow to smother him- who knows?

The next thing to touch his forehead is a cold, wet flannel, and Simon shies away from the contact.

"'S'okay, Simon," a voice murmurs, pressing more insistently with the cold cloth. "Just me."

Kieren. Simon shakes his head slightly against the pillows. He can feel tears forming in his itchy eyes again. "'S'cold. Please, Kier, I'm so…"

"Yer not cold," Kieren says gently, wiping the damp cloth softly across his sweating forehead. "It's the fever, you just think y'are. It'll go in a sec."

Kieren tugs the blankets down a little to a slightly less suffocating position, and Simon doesn't fight even though every instinct screams at him to cling to whatever warmth he can find. Kieren's right, he knows he is. It's all in his head. All in his head…

As his body returns to a slightly more normal temperature, he lets out a deep, rattling sigh. Kieren keeps gently dabbing with the flannel, occasionally dipping it into the bowl for fresh water. Simon flinches every time he does that, and still doesn't know why- Keiren won't hurt him. Definitely not. He wishes his paranoid mind would believe it. In the darkened room, barely a fragile sliver of moonlight peeking through the curtains, Simon is glad that he can't see Kieren's face. He's glad that the younger man can't see his. He never wanted him to see him like this…

His mouth is dry, his tongue is heavy.

 _Thank you,_ he thinks because his numb mouth won't form the words.

_Thank you…_

_Don't hate me, please…_

_Don't pity me, I don't know what I'd do if you pitied me…_

_I don't want you to see me like this…_

_But thank you for being here…_

_Thank you, thank you, thank you…_

_I love you…_

He stiffens. Kieren's hand pauses momentarily.

"All right?" he asks gently.

Simon nods minutely, just so Kieren won't turn on the light. He can't see him…

_I love you._

He thinks of those words. He'd never really thought or said them before- well, not sincerely. He thinks of plays and sonnets and songs written about them. He thinks he should be happy.

Instead he holds his breath as cold dread, heavy like a stone, settles deep in the pit of his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simoooooon? Simon, please don't get all paranoid and screw this up. Pleeeeeease.
> 
> Anyway, hope that was okay! Feedback always appreciated! I'm afraid we're taking a break from the Amy storyline next chapter- but don't worry, after that she gets a whole chapter to herself!
> 
> Oh, and remember I mentioned the 'Big Dramatic Thing' that now happens earlier in the fic than previously anticipated?
> 
> ...Yeah, that's next chapter.
> 
> ...Well, until next time! Byeeeeeeeee! X


	9. Prove Me Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is! The big dramatic chapter- eeeeek!
> 
> No Amy this chapter I'm afraid- it's a pretty important pivotal moment for Kier and Si so it's all about them. Don't worry, I'll make it up to ya!
> 
> Anyway, I hope I've done this okay- been getting super paranoid about the writing for this chapter! It's so important, I didn't wanna screw it up by making it over the top or OOC! Hopefully mission accomplished, but do let me know!
> 
> Well, enjoy!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3

"Simon!" Kieren says, gripping the tormented man's arm for dear life. "Simon, it's okay- yer okay!"

It's no use. His eyes are wild. Every time he looks at Kieren they fill with fear, mistrust. Kieren feels each look cut deep into his soul. Simon just writhes and whimpers, there's no reasoning with him, no way to calm him down, and the roar of the storm outside the window does nothing to help.

Kieren wants so much to just curl up in a corner and cry. He's out of his depth. He's completely fucking useless to Simon in a situation like this- what the  _fuck_  was he supposed to  _do?_ He bites his lip and holds on, hoping that maybe if he can stay a firm, steady presence it may provide some kind of anchor for the struggling man to hold onto.

He thought long and hard before calling out for Mrs. Monroe- he knew that Simon had wanted to keep it a secret, but there's nothing else to be done. Kieren can't do this alone- he hasn't a fucking clue what can even be done.

When Lana appears in the doorway there is panic etched on her face from the urgency of Kieren's call. When she sees her son, tossing and turning like he's being burned at the stake, she drops to her knees at his side and cradles his face with her hands, murmuring soothing phrases in Irish that Kieren can't even begin to understand. But nothing breaks through- he's too far gone. Kieren's too scared to even close the door, and before long he feels Iain Monroe at his back.

"Feckin' Christ, what's 'e taken?" the man growls, angry but fearful.

"Nothin'," Kieren insists, shaking his head as tears begin to well up in his tired eyes. "He's clean, goin' cold turkey- it's been five days so far."

That silences Iain. But frankly Kieren couldn't give two shits about him right now- he's too concerned with the way Simon's eyes keep rolling back in his head to care about his father's feelings.

"Simon," Kieren whispers, reaching a shaky hand out towards the tortured man's cheek. "Si…"

The second his fingers make contact Simon's fluttering eyelids fly open. He smacks his hand away forcefully, stinging his fingertips, and sits bolt upright as his tangled sheets fall around him. Kieren is too shocked to react as he scrambles out of bed, bare feet stumbling over the floorboards gracelessly. He shoves past Iain and runs to the stairs, and Kieren is up after him in a heartbeat.

"Simon!" he shouts desperately, reaching the bottom of the stairs just as Simon yanks the front door open. "Simon, don't-!"

It's too late. Simon doesn't glance back, doesn't speak, doesn't even stop to slip on some shoes or throw on a jacket before he runs out into the deluge. Kieren trips to a halt just shy of the threshold, searching frantically for a retreating figure and finding only icy rain as far as the eye can see.

Lana Monroe is at his side, tears streaming down her face. Kieren can't even look at her or offer any sort of reassurance- all he can do is stare out at the place where Simon should be. She attempts to run out into the rain after him, but something holds her back. Kieren glances round to see Iain, expression stormier than the sky as he holds tightly to Lana's arm.

"Leave 'im," he says, and if there's any regret in his voice it's obscured by disappointment.

Kieren stares at him, feeling anger boiling in his blood. "He's yer _son!_ "

Iain glares at him, like he had since the day he'd first walked in. He was just his son's adopted stray, after all. "He's made his choice. Lana, come back inside-"

"Yeah, he has," Kieren yells. "He made a choice to get better- least yeh could do is show some fucking support!"

"Don't yeh talk to me like that," Iain spits, pushing Lana back a bit further and prodding Kieren's chest with his finger. "You're lucky I even let you in here, yeh ungrateful bastard! You'd be dead on a park bench if Simon hadn't dragged yeh back here like a mongrel cat off the street!"

"And  _he's_  gonna be dead on a bench if we don't go out and get 'im!" Kieren shouts, smacking his hand away. "He can't do this alone, he needs help- yer s'posed to be his  _family!_ "

"He was never gonna do this, with or without our help!" Iain bellows. "You don't know 'im- you think yeh do just 'cause you've been bunking up with 'im for a couple o' weeks, eh? He's never seen anything through in his life, this was never gonna be any different!"

Kieren wants to scream, shout, maybe punch Iain in his lousy face. But he stands his ground, taking sharp breaths through his nose as he grits his teeth. The man is looking down at him with something in between pity and contempt.

"Thought you were the exception to the rule, did yeh?" he sneers. "Thought you were special?"

He knows he shouldn't listen to him- he's angry, bitter, lashing out in any way possible. But all the same Kieren feels like caving in on himself.

"Come on, then- what'd he say to you to get yeh to stick around?" Iain prodded. "Has a talent for leading boys on, doesn't he, Lana? Knows how to get what 'e wants."

Kieren is trying harder than he's ever tried in his life not to cry. Lana is watching him sadly, pityingly from behind Iain, the tears still quietly flowing down her cheeks, although her sobs have stopped. She's too used to it- maybe every time Simon runs away a little more of her gives up. Maybe she won't even call him this time. He knows Iain won't.

Suddenly he doesn't want to cry anymore. Instead he straightens his back, meeting Iain's gaze resolutely as he reaches out to the coat rack beside him and takes a hold of Simon's worn leather jacket.

Then he turns around, holds the jacket over his head, and dashes out into the rain.

* * *

Nineteen hours. Nineteen little hours since he'd first found those three little words.

Who knew so much could go wrong in just nineteen hours?

Every second has been gruelling- he fluctuates between hot and cold too fast to even know which one is the reality anymore, every time he throws up Kieren removes the bucket from his sight as quickly as possible so he doesn't see the blood and chunks and go into another panic attack.

Kieren.

_I love you._

God, how he wishes those words could be a source of joy. Instead they just fill him with… something. He doesn't even know- fear? Anger? Distrust? He can't even tell how much is the withdrawal paranoia and how much are genuine concerns anymore. Every time he catches the redhead's eye across the room he's assaulted by a combination of elation and bitterness. Every time the younger man reaches out a hand to touch him he feels like his skin will burn him like hot candlewax, his words will gut him like knife.

_It's all in your head…_

But he doesn't know what's in his head anymore. Where is the line? _Is_ there a line, now?

He had to get out. Get away. He can't do it anymore- this torture, feeling his mind slip away with what remains of his body. Everyone hits their tipping point with withdrawal- the moment where they sink or swim, the point of no going back, and his is approaching like a freight train. So he runs away from it as best he can, perhaps he'll never stop running.

Maybe he can just forget this ever happened.

Maybe he can forget  _Kieren_  ever happened.

He knows where he is before he even really gets there. His hands fall forward, grip the carved stone balustrade with every ounce of his failing strength. His feet hurt, he knows they must be bleeding- he must have trodden on more glass shards and sharp rocks than he could count. He couldn't give a shit. He's soaked through, rain, sweat and tears chilling him to the bone.

The sight of rushing water, vast and black in the glow of the streetlamp, greets him as his head flops forward. This was how he'd first found Kieren- battered, bloody, gazing down into the depths like they were calling to him.

A choking sob escapes his throat, his fingers tighten on the rough stone.

For the first time in years, his head is clear. He'd forgotten just how terrifyingly  _empty_  it felt. He feels hollowed out as the cold wind whistles right through him, he could just let it carry him away. Everything is so dark, and vast, and so terrifyingly unpredictable. Nothing makes sense. The real world is so full of things that are sharp, and cold and ruthless. And in the end all the pain is all for nothing- because really, what point is there to it all? What the Hell is it going to matter what he does with his life when soon enough he'll be nothing but dust in the wind?

This was how he'd lived most of his life. But it had never hurt this much before.

Because now he wants it to be wrong.

He wants to have more meaning than that. He wants there to be some kind of reward, some kind of purpose, because the entire world isn't cold and heartless anymore.

He hadn't known the kind of people existed that could make him  _wish_  he was wrong.

The thought of people like Kieren, honest and kind and true, crumbling thanklessly to ashes along with the rest of the world fills him with a new level of despair he'd never known existed. He curses the universe for being so cruel just as he curses Kieren for being so kind. Things were so much easier when he could lump every human being into the same box- cold, pointless, self-centred bastards. Fucking Hell, what right has this damn kid to come swanning along and unbalancing his entire world view? He's ruined him.

Because how can he return to what he was now that he knows what he could have been?

It had always been so easy before- life's a bitch, the world's a bitch, might as well join in. But how can he ever live his life that way again knowing what he's missing?

He can't exist without the drugs, numbing his mind to the chilling realities.

But he can't live with them anymore, either.

_What am I?_

He turns his face to the sky, the stars invisible behind grey clouds as far as the eye can see. Finally, the sky matches up to his mood. At least those stupid stars aren't even pretending to be important tonight- last thing he needs is another existential crisis about gaseous explosions on the other side of the galaxy.

He looks back down to the water, running fast and thick with the torrential rain feeding the flow. His hand slips on the slick stone, and his bloody feet complain. He wonders if he even has the strength to climb this fucking wall- is anything really worth the effort, anymore? It's certainly tempting. Who has time for a crisis of faith when you're being swept away and dashed against the shore?

"I wouldn't if I were you."

His laboured breathing stutters to a halt. He turns his head minutely, enough to look to the voice from the corner of his eye. He has to squint through the rain.

Kieren's hands hang limply at his sides, Simon's jacket hanging from one. He makes no effort to pull it over his head as the rain soaks his copper hair.

"It's really fuckin' cold," he says.

* * *

"Go away, Kieren."

"Nah," Kieren says, as light-heartedly as he can manage- but frankly Simon's too close to the edge of the bridge for his liking. "Thought I ought'a come after you before yeh do something really,  _really_ stupid."

Simon doesn't answer, turning his face back to the water. Taking a deep breath, Kieren takes the smallest step closer.

"Simon," he says softly, and God he wishes Simon would just turn around so he could look in his eyes and see how sincere he is. "Simon, what can I do?"

He expects a shrug, or a grunt or maybe even another shout at him to fuck off.

What he isn't expecting is a bark of laughter, sharp and humourless as Simon turns to face him.

"Why're you like this?" Simon asks, shaking his head.

Kieren frowns. "Simon, I don't-"

"Of course you don't," Simon's fists clench at his sides. "Never understand, do yeh? Don't fucking understand what you're  _doing_ to me!"

His breaths are coming sharp and fast, his bloodied feet shuffling on the sodden tarmac. Kieren wants to be hurt at the anger in his voice, wants to raise his own and stand up for himself- frankly he's had enough of being belittled by angry Irish men tonight. But he holds his tongue, bites his lip and listens because he gets the feeling that the best way of getting the frantic man away from the water's edge is to let him rant.

"I was so  _close_ \- another hour and I could have been dead, and this whole fucking thing could've just been over and done with," he rages, he doesn't even move to push his limp hair from his face. "But you just had to come along, didn't yeh? Drag me back into it all- and then you had to fuckin' hang around, bein' like y'are… I've never felt so feckin' worthless, and let me tell yeh that's sayin' something!"

"Simon…" Kieren says, eyes wide, but the man isn't done yet. Not by a long shot.

"I've hated a lot of stuff before, Kieren," he says, one hand gripping the stone wall at his side for balance. "I've hated the world, I've hated people, hated this big fuckin' rip-off called life…" he shakes his head, his eyes close momentarily. "But I never hated  _myself_ 'til you came along. Not sayin' I  _liked_ myself, either, but I always figured at least it wasn't my fault…"

Kieren's glad of the rain pouring down his face- he doesn't want Simon to see the way tears spring forth from his eyes. His hand tangles in the loose end of the bandage on his wrist, kept on by force of habit even long after the wound has healed. Has he been misreading Simon this whole time? Is this how he's felt every moment they've been together, silently resenting Kieren for everything he's done? Everything he represents?

"I never wanted…" he begins, choking slightly. "Simon, I never wanted you to-"

"I know," Simon mutters, looking back at Kieren over his shoulder. "I know you didn't. S'not your fault, you wouldn't hurt anyone, would yeh? Not deliberately, not for no reason. You didn't know what y'were getting into when you dragged me out of that ditch- bet you thought yeh were just helping me out," he almost smiles. "Y'know, for a suicidal pessimist you're pretty optimistic."

"Isn't it better to be optimistic?" Kieren asks softly, although he's not entirely sure he believes it himself. "See the best in people?"

Simon turns on him again." There yeh go again!" he says angrily, slamming his fist on the stone. "Talkin' to me like that, bein' all sweet and innocent and so goddamn feckin'  _helpful!_ Where the  _fuck_ does that come from?!"

Kieren takes a step back, fingers worrying the bandage. This isn't Simon. His Simon never shouts like this, never loses his temper so suddenly and so violently. That's what Rick used to do- smacking his fists against walls every time it got too much, every time his guilt at what they were doing overwhelmed him. Simon doesn't do this. Kieren's fingers tighten on the leather jacket, reminding himself with a small, quick mantra of  _it's only the withdrawal_ to keep himself quiet as Simon rages.

"Don't yeh see what you're doin' to me, Kieren?" he says, and Kieren sees a thin line of blood trickle from his fist, clenched so tight his nails dig into his palm. "Jesus, everything was so  _simple_ before yeh found me- now you're around it's like I've been looking at the world wrong…"

Kieren resists the urge to point out that that's probably because he's looking at it sober for once. It doesn't seem appropriate when Simon is laying his heart open right before him.

"It wasn't a good life before you came along," he mutters, hand moving up to scratch the back of his head- Kieren was grateful for the nervous gesture, reassuringly familiar against the rage. "Hell, I wouldn't even say it was an all right life, but it was somethin'. I was surviving, and that was it- that was enough! I thought that's all there feckin' was- eat, sleep, survive, die. I was cold, and I was alone and selfish and useless, but so was everyone else so who the fuck even cares? What the fuck did I have to believe in?"

He takes a deep, shuddering breath inwards. "But now you're here I  _want_ to believe. In something at least," he laughs coldly, grimly. "I want to believe you'll get better, I wanna believe you won't try to off yourself again, and you'll find your family and start your life. And I wanna believe you won't leave me behind when yeh do…"

Kieren thinks he may have forgotten how to breathe. He doesn't know when he raised the jacket from his side to hug it to his chest but it's there now, warm and heavy against his rain-soaked shirt, over his icy heart- the ice that's been thawing a little day by day, delicate fissures spider-webbing the surface every time Simon gives him that wry little smile of his.

"Just had to be fuckin' _you_ , didn't it?" Simon says, quietly but angrily as his hands tremble on the stone and he leans with his head over the wall. "Never used to get my hopes up like this- what would be the point?"

Kieren clutches the jacket tighter, blinking against the rain in his eyes.

"But yeh had to be there," Simon says, so quietly it's almost lost to the rushing water, like he doesn't even want Kieren to hear. "Just bein' you. Had to make me  _care…"_ he shakes his head, and Kieren wonders if he can even hear the rain through the noise in his own mind.

"Just had to make me love you, didn't yeh?"

It's almost like the world stops. He doesn't see or hear or feel the rain anymore. He just stares at Simon, really sees him, possibly for the first time. Sees his pale, bruised arms shining under the sheen of water. Sees his baggy  _Ramones_ t-shirt, soaked through along with the ratty jeans he wears as pyjamas. Sees his feet, bare and bloodied on the cold ground.

"'Course yeh did," Simon murmurs, and even from behind Kieren can tell his eyes are closed.

Kieren looks down at the ground, feeling like it could just crumble beneath his feet. He thinks of that word, that little L-word that he hadn't even heard  _once_  from Rick the whole time they'd known each other. It hadn't mattered- they'd felt it, they'd known it, that was all they needed. It had been enough- until one day, one otherwise perfectly unremarkable day, it just hadn't been. He'd wanted more. Maybe he pushed Rick too hard, maybe Rick never felt the way he did, who knew? The point was that neither of them had got what they wanted. Love was full of disappointments, full of pain and heartbreak. He'd learned that the hard way. He thinks a part of him had thought that by running away he could leave it all. Live a new life, no love, no pain. Simon says the word like it's obvious, like it isn't even a surprise. It's there, hanging heavily between them. Frankly it's terrifying- Kieren wants to run away, hide in a hole and never crawl out.

Nothing can come from love but more pain.

"Simon," he says quietly, taking a step closer.

But God, is it easy to get hooked on a certain kind of heartache.

"All these things- hope, belief…" he gulps, his throat suddenly feels so dry. "…love. Maybe they don't have to be so scary? Maybe they can be good- great, even. But you have to give them a chance."

Simon is staring at him, and with every step closer Kieren feels his confidence build. "There's nothing to stop you making them happen. They're there for the taking…" he meets Simon's gaze, blue eyes meeting brown through the veil of icy rain. "But sometimes yeh just have to take the first step yourself."

Simon stares back at him, his expression bitter- but the slightest glimmer of hope in his pale eyes has Kieren taking another step closer. "And then what?" he says, and the fear in his voice is heart wrenching.

Kieren shrugs. "Then you buckle up and hope for the best."

Simon snorts derisively. "Really? That's it? That's your sage advice, 'hope for the best'?"

"It's a start, isn't it?" Kieren says, taking another step closer. "That's what I did when I got on that stupid train."

"And how did that work out for yeh?" Simon says with a roll of his eyes. "Standing in the rain talking a suicidal drug addict down from a bridge- yeah, fantastic deal you've got for yourself, there."

"Suicidal  _ex-_ addict," Kieren corrects, mostly just to be irritating. "And yeah, it is. If yer must know, it's the first time I've felt fucking useful in years."

"I'm not an ex-addict yet, Kier," Simon mutters. "Not by a long shot. I'm gonna be a shuddering mess for weeks, maybe months. S'not the kind of thing that just  _goes_  overnight."

"Well, guess I'm just going to have to stick around then, aren't I?"

Simon regards him with chipped-ice eyes, and he can see the cynicism as they bore into him. "People let you down, Kieren," he says, his grip tightening on the stone. "And that applies to everyone- you and I included. And if  _you_  don't run away or off yourself or otherwise disappear, then it's gonna be me."

"People also have a habit of surprising you," Kieren says, and right now he believes every fucking word. He slowly stretches out his arm, spreading it out palm-up, still just over arm's length from where Simon leans against the stone.

"Please, Simon," he whispers, and it feels like laying his heart open all over again- like being fourteen and standing on the Macy's doorstep with a stoop to his shoulders and a mix CD in his trembling hands. "Please, give me a chance to prove yeh wrong."

Simon stares at him, and Kieren can't even count all the different emotions that cross his gaze.

But he turns around. Lifts his bloody foot, takes the first step, hand reaching out clumsily through the rain to his own. Their skin touches, both of them chilled to the bone, their pulses racing beneath their clammy skin. As Kieren tugs Simon closer, feeling the man's hesitation in his trembling hand and nervous steps, he smiles and raises the jacket in his hand.

"Come on," he says softly, draping it over his own head and holding it open for Simon to step under. "Let's go home."

* * *

Nearly two hours have passed, and Lana hasn't moved once from her silent vigil by the window. Iain had gone to bed, grumbling at her for wasting her time- Simon wasn't coming back. She wants to shout at him, but she knows it would be no use. Iain Monroe has a very specific way of dealing with pain, and that method is to get angry and cut himself off from the source. She doesn't agree with it, never has, but it's who he is.

Still, at this point even she's starting to grow doubtful. As the rain continues to pour and the street remains still save for a stray cat darting for cover, she starts to worry that maybe this really is it. Maybe her Simon isn't coming back this time. And if he doesn't return she knows Kieren won't- the boy will follow her son, no doubt about it. He's too concerned for his safety to let him go alone. Her heart swells with gratitude for the strange, half-starved boy she'd met on her doorstep that day- he was taking care of her Simon when she couldn't. It was more than she could have ever hoped for.

She sighs heavily, standing up and turning off the lamp. She'll stay awake- how could she sleep on a night like this?- but she doubts that either of them will be back tonight. Maybe tomorrow, if she's lucky. She only hopes they've found shelter somewhere out of the rain. Simon was barely clothed when he'd ran out, he'd freeze before too long if they didn't find somewhere to hide from the storm.

As the light goes off she takes one last, longing glance out the window.

Her breath catches.

She sees something, a figure stumbling through the gloom. It's only when it gets closer that she realises it isn't one figure but two, huddled under one coat. They grow closer still, and her heart leaps into her mouth as she recognises their faces.

She runs to the door, throwing it open as they approach and holding her hand out to them. Another hand, thin and cold, reaches out to take it. Kieren smiles weakly at her from beneath the heavy leather jacket, shivering slightly under his sodden clothes.

She shuts the door behind them, and Kieren removes the jacket from their shuddering shoulders gently. Simon's face is drawn, his feet are bruised and bloody and his skin is prickling with goose bumps. Kieren doesn't look much better, but he holds off on tending to himself to race to the bathroom and grab towels to dry off Simon's freezing skin. Lana takes one of them, reaching up to dry Simon's soaked hair as best she can- he can't go to bed with it like that, he'll freeze even more than he already has.

Between the two of them they get Simon upstairs, and it's just as well- his forehead is once again hot to the touch, his fever returning. The worst is far from over.

They do what they can; dry him off, dress him in dry clothes, tend to the scrapes and cuts in his feet as much as possible without having antibiotics to hand. In the end there's not much else to do besides let him try and get some sleep.

He's lying curled up on his bed, eyes screwed shut in a state of restless slumber, when Kieren finally goes to change into dry clothes himself. He emerges from the guest room again a moment later, dressed in clothes that used to belong to Simon before he'd left home, and smiles uneasily at Lana where she leans in Simon's doorway.

"I'd better stay with 'im tonight," he explains shyly, shifting his feet. "'Case it gets worse."

Lana stares at him, looking so small bundled in her son's old clothes, and smiles. He smiles back and nods as he brushes past her into the room.

Or at least he tries to, but she stops him with a hand on his arm. He turns to her questioningly, and without another word she wraps her arms around his shoulders and pulls him into a warm embrace. He stands frozen for a second before he returns the hug, arms around her waist as she presses her face to his shoulder.

Lana Monroe was never too good with words. It was her husband who read them poetry, who studied literature and could find a word for every situation (assuming he didn't find said situation to be too painful to acknowledge). What he expressed with words, she expressed with actions. There were no words to tell Kieren how grateful she was for saving her son's life so many times, for being there when she couldn't be, for bringing him back to them.

So she just holds on tightly to her son's guardian angel, pouring a thousand words into a single embrace, knowing it will never be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-dah! Keith do good? :3
> 
> Guess who gets a chapter all to herself next time? Why, it's the beautiful genius herself! (Which does sadly mean we're taking a break from these guys, but don't worry! The boys will be back in town another chapter from now, possibly along with kissing/fluff/angst/super light almost-smut, LET THE SIREN BEGIN!)
> 
> Also I'm gonna try keeping up this every-week-on-a-Monday update trend I've got going, but I'm officially all out of pre-drafted chapters now so I really am writing them from scratch, so if there ever is an update delay you know why!
> 
> Until next time! X


	10. What Could Have Been...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello!
> 
> Couple of announcements:
> 
> One) This fic is now going to be 20 chapters long, I was looking at my plan for the final chapter and realised it was gonna be a fucking BEHEMOTH so I decided to pace myself a bit (which also gives me more chances to write Siren-ish moments, so yay! There's gonna be a whole extra chapter of Siren fluff because of my decision, so I think it's a good one :3)
> 
> Two) I did my best with this chapter, but I am still completely unhappy with it. Basically I think I've spent so long writing Simon and Kieren that I've completely forgotten how to write Amy xD And I find writing Phil even trickier! So basically I apologise if this chapter ain't quite up to snuff- but hey, chapter ten, guess that brings us to the new half-way point in the fic! What a long, crazy journey we've had! I feel like celebrating, which brings us onto announcement-
> 
> Three) I'm determined to make it up to you for A) the shortness of this chapter B) the lack of Simon/Kieren in this chapter and C) the all around maybe-not-quite-as-good-as-other-chapters of this chapter, so guess what? Next week you get a massive chapter of PURE, UNADULTERATED SIREN! Sound good? No, sounds great! Gettin' to the good stuff now, folks!
> 
> Enjoy! :D
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3

Amy practically dances through the door of the bungalow, humming cheerily as she twirls along with the cuddly lion swinging from her hands.

" _I ought'a get him a friend!" she chirped, playfully bouncing the toy around like it was dancing. "A little leopard, or a panther or something!"_

" _Get yeh a tiger next time," Philip smiled, taking her free hand. "Promise."_

She giggles, cuddling the lion to her chest. God, she's exhausted, but just this once it was well worth it. She'd spent the whole day with Philip, going on rides and eating all the sinfully delicious carnival food she could find- she'd even seen Jem at one point, and actually received a smile and a wave before she'd disappeared into the crowd with her friend. It may not be much, but it was definitely a start- the girl was getting a little less snippy with her every day! It had been years since she'd had this much fun, the last recorded case was probably sometime before she was diagnosed. The fun had stopped pretty quickly after that delightful afternoon.

"Amy?"

Amy rounds the corner to find her Nan in the living room, sitting bolt upright on one of the armchairs with her hands worrying a silk handkerchief between them. She stands, reaching for the parasol that she practically uses as a cane these days.

"Amy, where've you been?" Dorothy demands, hobbling towards her with her mouth set in a stern line. "You've been gone all day."

"Day trip," Amy says brightly, cuddling the lion closer. "With Philip- he took me to the funfair, won me a little mate and everything!" she grabs one of the little cat's paws, waving it at her Nan playfully.

Dorothy doesn't seem amused. "Sounds lovely, dear, but you shouldn't be staying out so long," she chastises. "And every day, too! You shouldn't be overstraining yourself like this in your condition."

"I can take care of meself, Nan!" Amy complains, her arms dropping to her sides as the lion dangles from her grasp. "And Philly takes perfectly good care of me, too-"

"I just think you shouldn't be pushing yourself," Dorothy insists firmly.

"I can handle it-!"

"You'll only make things worse if you keep-"

" _How_ could it get worse, Nan?" Amy demands.

Dorothy is taken aback by the outburst, but continues on calmly. "I'm just saying you're at a delicate stage, you shouldn't be pushing your luck."

"Do you really think I have any luck left to push?" Amy asks bitterly, crossing her arms. "I'm gonna be dead soon, anyway, might as well try and have some bloody fun before I bite the dust."

"Amy…"

"Nan, I can't just sit around and do  _nothing_ ," Amy exclaims, louder than she intended. "I've done enough of that as it is! That's  _all_ I've done- if I'm gonna die soon I might as well try and  _live_ for once!"

She feels something warm on her cheek and reaches up to wipe it away, feels moisture on her fingertips. So much for her good mood.

Dorothy is looking back at her, tired brown eyes shining with sadness.

"I'm sorry, Amy," she says softly, handing her granddaughter the handkerchief to wipe her eyes. "You really do deserve better than this…" her carefully composed face looks in danger of cracking. "You're special. Always have been…"

Amy bunches the handkerchief uselessly in her hand as the tears flow. The dam is broken, all the anger and floods she'd held in finally breaking free. So quick, and so abrupt- to think her weeks of hard work keeping the fear bottled up could be undone with just a few choice phrases. Suddenly it's like her face is being submerged in freezing water, and she's gasping for breath through aching lungs but finding only ice to fill the space.

"It's not fair," she chokes.

And then, because the air is suddenly too thin in that old hallway, she runs out the front door, the handkerchief and stuffed lion falling to the floor behind her. She doesn't look back.

* * *

Philip is too busy lying back on his bed and smiling giddily to pay much mind to the knock on the front door. He probably would have ignored it completely in favour of reliving his entire day with Amy in his head if it weren't for his mum calling him down. Reluctantly, he drags himself to his feet and descends the stairs, humming all the way.

His immediate reaction when he sees Amy hovering on the doorstep is to grin like a maniac.

His face falls when he gets closer and sees her eyes red-rimmed, the heavy layer of make-up over her sallow face smudged. She sniffles, wiping her nose unceremoniously on her cardigan sleeve and offering him a weak smile.

"Evenin', Tiger," she greets him quietly.

"Amy?" he asks anxiously, crossing over to her quickly just as Shirley excuses herself and disappears to the kitchen, giving them a long look over her shoulder as she goes. Philip takes Amy's thin hands in his own, and feels them shaking. "Amy, what's wrong?"

She sniffs and shrugs, looking down at their twined fingers. "Where do I even start?"

Philip gulps- he's never been very good with advice, or comfort. He's never been very good with people and their emotions in general, to be honest.

But it's Amy.

"Come on," Philip says gently, tugging her over the threshold and shutting the door behind her. "You head upstairs- I'll get you a cuppa."

* * *

"It's just so  _unfair!_ "

She's crying again, pulling tissues from the box at her side and frantically dabbing at the tears that flow down her cheeks. Philip sits awkwardly at the other end of the bed, holding onto her rapidly cooling cup of tea while she sobs. Honestly, he has no idea what else he can do- it's a complete shock, seeing her like this. Usually she's so strong, so full of life even when it must feel like the whole world's out to get her. It feels wrong, seeing her vulnerable like this.

"It's just…" she chokes, running a hand through her wild hair. "There's still so much left for me to  _do_ , and now I'm never gonna do it because someone decided; 'Oh, look at that lovely girl with loads of friends and a plan for the future, let's give her a nice hefty dose of _incurable cancer!'_ "

Apparently everyone has a breaking point.

"I was gonna go to Paris," she sniffs, taking the steaming mug from him and holding it against her chest with shaking hands. "Experience the bohemian lifestyle for a bit, be some moregeous artist's muse, then I was gonna go everywhere else- Venice, New York, Berlin. Spent so bloody long in teeny villages and tedious schools, I was gonna get as far away from it as I could…"

Philip doesn't know what to say- what can he possibly say to make her feel better? He's had no practise at this, no prior experience. She's never brought it up before. Whenever they were together she just talked about anything and everything else, as if the illness would go away if she didn't give it the time of day. Endless denial. Obviously that's no longer an option.

"Big adventures, whirlwind romances, all those things yeh read about in books," she laughs sadly, shaking her head. "I was gonna do  _everything!_  I'm now I'm just 'ere, and I'm stuck and I'm doomed, s'like I haven't even played the game yet and I've already been fuckin'  _benched!_ "

She sniffles again, clutching tighter to the mug in her hands as the shaking subsides. "Sorry…" she whispers, her hair falling over her face as she bows her head.

"For what?" Philip asks, confused.

She looks up at him, wide brown eyes devoid of her usual cheeriness. "Draggin' yeh in," she says quietly, sipping her tea despite the scalding temperature.

"Amy, I don't-"

"Shouldn't have got yeh involved," Amy mumbles guiltily, looking down into her tea like she wishes she could drown in it. "S'not yer fault. I've been leading you on."

His brow furrows, he reaches out for her hand but it remains firmly clasped around the mug. "What d'you mean?"

"I've been doomed from the start, Philip," she says, so quietly it almost slips right by him. "I knew whatever happened with us wasn't gonna last, and I knew I'd just end up popping me clogs and leaving yeh all sad and abandoned," she shrugs gloomily. "Should've never sat down at that bloody picnic with you. S'pose I just didn't care enough to let yeh go."

"Don't say that," Philip says, eyes wide as he shakes his head.

"S'true," Amy says flatly. "I can be pretty selfish when the mood takes me."

"Amy," Philip says softly, gently prising one of her trembling hands away from the steaming cup and holding it carefully in his own. "You're not selfish. Yer about as far from selfish as it's possible to be."

"What d'you mean?" she asks, bewildered.

"Well, like you said, you don't have much time left," he says, silently wishing that saying the words might make them lose their power. "You could 'ave done anything you wanted- gone away on a last holiday, hidden away from people and watched telly, no one would've blamed you, but you didn't."

Her eyes are fixed on him now. He gulps and continues.  _Words, don't fail me now._

"You came here. You stayed with your gran and helped her sort out the house, you made friends with the Walkers- I saw Jem the other day, she was the 'appiest I've seen her since her brother vanished. Nothing you do is selfish, you don't even put some of your prettiest flowers on display 'cause you know they're poisonous to cats, and you don't want some poor stray to come along and get ill from them. And as for me…"

"Yeah?" she breathes, he feels her grip on his hand tighten.

He shrugs, looking down at their joined hands as he rubs his thumb along the back of hers. "I know you feel bad about getting me involved," he murmurs. "But you shouldn't. I wanted to be. I knew what was going on with you when we first met- everyone in town did. S'pose gossip travels fast. But I wouldn't have even met you if you hadn't decided to come 'ere, and I'm not sorry to admit that the last few weeks have been some of the best of my life."

He smiles at her, nervous and gawky as always. God, can't he just be smooth and confident for once in his life? "I mean, I s'pose you could look at it like some kind of tragic love story, cut short in its prime. But maybe it'd be better to think of it as a month together we weren't ever supposed to have?" he grips her thin hand. "Because we've had some time together at least, and we've got a bit more to come, and… I'm glad I get to spend it with you…"

His mouth feels dry, his tongue is heavy. He doesn't think he's ever talked this much in his life.

But Amy is smiling warmly, gratefully, her tears slowly drying on her cheeks. She sets her mug down carefully on the bedside table, reaching out her free hand to take his and pull them both to her chest. She doesn't say thank you, not verbally.

But as she leans in and kisses him, he can taste the words on her lips clear as day. They may be sad, long-suffering and salty with tears, but in that moment he doesn't care. He'll take whatever she gives him, just as he'll give whatever he has.

* * *

"So, next week?"

Amy smiles, nodding. "Yeah. Definitely."

Philip grins, leaning in to press one last kiss to her lips before turning and walking home. The sky is dark, the moon has risen, peeking out from behind grey clouds. Looks like they're in for rain.

" _Film night next week, yeah? Just 'cause you can't travel to all those places yourself doesn't mean you can't watch 'em on the telly!"_

" _Alright, Tiger- Paris?"_

"' _Midnight In Paris'!"_

" _Rome?"_

"' _Roman Holiday', o' course!"_

" _How about New York?"_

" _Better narrow it down, there's at least two thousand set there."_

" _Well, looks like we've got our work cut out for us, then!"_

She smiles, hugging her arms tightly across her chest. Somehow just thinking of him warms her. He wasn't the kind of man she usually fell for- he isn't stunning, or mysterious, and he isn't the most eloquent man to ever walk God's green earth, but his presence softens her. Makes her feel safe, and wanted. He's such a gentle soul- she only wishes she didn't have to wound him so.

But, unfortunately, the world can be a bloody cruel place when it wants to be.

The light is on in the kitchen. With a deep breath, she grabs the handle and opens the door, stepping into the bungalow.

Dorothy Dyer stands at the sink, scrubbing a plate that's probably been clean for at least half an hour. She turns as she hears the door, hands ceasing in their endless motion as her eyes lock on Amy. The lion doll sits on the counter, next to the delicate silk handkerchief.

Amy thinks about apologising- she may not agree with her Nan, but she didn't deserve all that shouting. She hadn't meant to hurt her.

Instead she just walks over as Dorothy peels off her rubber gloves. When the damp Marigolds are both discarded on the edge of the basin Amy takes the last step, stooping to wrap her arms around the dainty woman's shoulders and burying her face in her hair. It's an apology, of sorts.

And though neither of them say it, they both feel it. It's regret, and it's forgiveness.

It's also a goodbye.

She feels the embrace returned, firm in its support but also sad, almost resigned. Before she knows it, Amy is sobbing once more, crying for the life she could have had.

At the same moment, Dorothy Dyer is crying too, weeping for a beautiful life cut short. Weeping for the girl who's the closest thing to a daughter she's ever known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there ya go! We're halfway through the fic, wooo!
> 
> Oh, Amy, I love you so- how I wish I could write you better! xD
> 
> So, for all of you who've stuck with me this far, I thank and salute you- and your patience shall be rewarded! Tune in next week for concentrated Siren!
> 
> Until next time! X


	11. Charting Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dears!
> 
> Well, we're halfway through now- and as thanks to all you lovely people for sticking with it, I present to you this massive chapter of pure Siren (and yes, I know it's sudden, they barely know each other and they only just sort-of confessed to each other, but guess what I DON'T CARE AND I WANNA WRITE ROMANCE!)
> 
> So, without much further ado, here it is- en-fuckin'-joy! As always, I welcome your feedback! :D
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3 Also the lyrics mentioned belong to Muse, and the song is 'Unintended'

It isn't the first time he's woken up to find a certain brown-eyed boy asleep at his side. It's also not the first time his wasted old heart pounds like a jackhammer at the sight.

Kieren is curled up in a worn leather armchair, hastily pulled up to the side of the bed. His feet tucked beneath him and his copper hair in disarray, he sleeps soundly cocooned in one of Mrs Monroe's patchwork quilts. Simon is dying to reach over and brush the flyaway strands from his dishevelled fringe out of his eyes, but he holds himself back. Kieren could wake up at any moment, last thing he wants is for the younger man to think he's creepy (okay, he might think that already, but  _still_ ).

So instead Simon slowly, painfully pulls himself up to sit against the headboard, wincing as his feet drag across the sheets. Ah, yes, he'd forgotten about those. He pulls his blankets aside and glances down at the bandages, but sighs and tugs the sheets back into place. Sod all he can do about them right now- if he leans too far forward he might (scratch that,  _will_ ) be sick.

"Mornin', Simon."

He looks up to the quiet, groggy voice, smiling as Kieren's bleary brown eyes watch him from the armchair. "Mornin'."

Kieren smiles lopsidedly, sitting up straight and stretching his stiff arms over his head. The quilt falls down around his waist, and Simon's heart warms as he spies the worn old  _Pink Floyd_ t-shirt hanging loosely from his skinny chest. Kieren immediately notices where his gaze has wondered and blushes, yanking the quilt back into place over the logo. It's not like he hasn't borrowed Simon's clothes before- he's basically been living in them since they arrived at the Monroe family home- but it's the first time Simon's seen him wake up in them, seen the way he snuggles into them.

"How're you feeling?" Kieren asks, partly to change the subject.

Simon shrugs, wincing as the motion makes his shoulder click. "Like Hell. But not, like, the deepest depths- maybe just the first circle or so."

Kieren chuckles, pushing the quilt aside and shuffling forward in his seat. "Well, that's something. Hold still a sec."

Simon does so as Kieren presses the palm of his hand to Simon's forehead, nodding approvingly after a moment. "Well, yer temperature's gone down, at least. Maybe last night was the worst."

And just like that, Simon's good mood is gone. He cringes as the events of the previous night flood back to him- the bridge, the rain, the tears and harsh words. Fucking Hell, how is Kieren even  _looking_  at him right now?

"Kieren," he begins uneasily, swinging his legs off the bed to rest his sore feet on the floor despite fair-haired man's protests. "Look, 'bout everything I said… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt yeh or anything…"

"It's fine, Simon," Kieren says gently, not quite meeting his gaze. "Really, it is. 'Sides, guess there were some things I was happy to hear…"

Simon barely has time to process that sentence before a sharp pain in his side has him lurching to the left. He probably would have pitched over completely if two hands hadn't caught his arms, steadying him where he sat. He looks back up to Kieren with a grateful smile, only to find the fair-haired man's brow furrowed, his gaze searching Simon like he's trying to figure something out.

"Kieren?" Simon asks quietly, voice rough.

Kieren seems to reach some sort of decision. He leans closer, hands still gripping Simon's biceps. His face comes to a halt just inches from Simon's, his breath faltering in his nervousness. Simon knows now what he wants, although he can't quite believe it. He hesitantly lifts a hand, pressing his fingertips to Kieren's jaw lightly. It's all the encouragement the younger man needs.

Warmth floods his body as their mouths meet, eyes drifting closed as Kieren's lips begin to move and his follow their lead. The lightest pressure, barely there and yet somehow managing to be more than anything he's ever experienced. He could just go ahead and drown in it. His breath hitches, his other hand moves to grip Kieren's shoulder.

It's almost painful as Kieren breaks away, cheeks flushed and breathing quickly. His eyes flutter open, and with his pupils dilated they're even darker than ever. His gaze flickers to the hand on his shoulder, face uncertain. "Is this…" he gulps, pulling back a bit further. "Sorry, is this too fast?"

Simon's eyes widen, and he shakes his head as he moves the hand away from its bracing position on the redhead's shoulder and up to the base of his neck, trying to soften his hold. He doesn't want to give him the impression that he's pushing him away. "No. No! God, no, sorry, I just…"

He looks at Kieren's anxious face, doe-eyes wide and cheeks pink, and wonders how often he gets pushed away when he tries to be intimate- has he even been given the  _chance_  to initiate kisses in the past?

Simon smiles reassuringly, hand tightening on the back of Kieren's neck- gentle but insistent. Kieren seems to search his face a moment longer before finally deciding that he won't be rejected. Their lips meet again, firmer this time, Kieren's hands sliding up from his arms to tangle in his hair, and Simon shivers at the contact (although to be fair that might just be because his fever's returning, but the other explanation is more romantic). Despite how clumsy it is, tired mouths sick of talking and tired hands that don't know where to rest, it's a little bit perfect.

Simon cradles Kieren's chin gently, and decides he's not going to be afraid right at this moment. There's going to be plenty of time for fear, doubt and guilt later, when Kieren realises exactly what he's getting into. They'll cross that bridge when they come to it.

For now, might as well enjoy the ride.

* * *

" _You could be my unintended choice to live my life extended…"_

"Alright, then, Master of Music," Simon says dryly, jerking his thumb towards the speaker up on the shop wall. "What's the band?"

"Muse," Kieren says with a snort. "Easy. If you're gonna quiz me at least make it difficult!"

Simon sniggers, returning his attention to the endless racks of CDs as he runs his fingers over the spines. They always end up here at this old record store, even when they both know perfectly well that they won't be buying anything. It passes the time- besides, they listen to the best songs at home when his parents go out and they can snatch a few hours alone with the family laptop. God bless the internet and pirated music.

"I love these guys," Kieren grins, picking up a CD and showing Simon the cover.

He peers over the rack at the nondescript pale blue box. "Zero points for cover design," he mutters, squinting at the white letters. "'The Shins'? Whose bloody idea was that?"

"Who needs a decent name when you have lyrics to make angels weep?" Kieren says dramatically, giggling at Simon's incredibly unsubtle eye-roll. He's taken to teasing the older man a lot for his often pretentious manner of speaking- poetry extracts and obscure book references included. Not that Simon really minds. If he's going to be teased he's happy it's by this snarky bundle of sunshine and misery who'd picked him off the street. Besides, every time he makes a sarcastic comment or a bad pun it's like watching him come back to life. The lonely kid who'd been content to freeze in the streets seems to slide away, if only for a moment.

"Si? You alright?"

"Hmm?" Simon mumbles, noticing with a start that Kieren has walked around the stand and is at his side, looking down with concern etched in his features. Simon follows his gaze to see his own hands shaking where they rest against the pristine plastic rows.

"'M fine," he mutters, wiping his slick palms against his jeans. He must be sweating all over- sometimes it still feels like his body is being dragged over hot coals.

Kieren isn't convinced, but doesn't say another word. Instead he just extends his hand slightly, fingers brushing softly against Simon's in a comforting gesture- so far it's the closest they've come to holding hands in public. They share a fleeting smile, Kieren bumping his shoulder before turning round and walking briskly along the shelves towards the second-hand vinyls, brows knitted in mock concentration as he scans the titles.

Simon shakes his head, following him with a smirk- a truly ridiculous man he's decided to fall for.

* * *

Sometimes it feels like he's going to crumble, the pain wracking his body driving him slowly insane.

But it doesn't bother him now, or at least not as much.

Because every time he bites his lip and clenches his fist against a fresh wave of heat, he knows that he's getting closer. With every wave of nausea that has him doubling over and retching he knows it's one less attack until he's finally better.

Fucking Hell, is he glad that Kieren isn't sick of him yet.

Sometimes the fair-haired man will brush past him, lightly touching his arm or fingers as he goes. Sometimes he'll pull him down for gentle, fleeting kisses when they're alone. Sometimes they'll be less gentle, and Simon wants to pour out his gratitude to the boy for not treating him like glass- although he can't promise that he'll return the favour.

Those little touches, be they swift or lingering, soft or firm, are what keep him going. Keeps his body anchored when his mind is a thousand miles away.

They're what keep him from once again racing out into the night and not coming back.

They're what persuade him that whatever awaits on the other side of the pain has to be better than any quick relief he could get elsewhere.

He notices the incredulous looks he gets from his father sometimes. The first day he sees that look on his face is the first day he knows he must be getting there. He wouldn't be staring at him like that unless he'd really taken him by surprise- and the one thing in the world that would most definitely take Iain Monroe by surprise is the sight of his hopeless son actually making a positive difference in his life. He starts to wish he'd made some kind of bet with his dad before he'd started this, he could use the extra cash- the list of CDs he planned on buying at Kieren's recommendation was ever growing, as was the list of CDs he wanted to buy for the man himself.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he freezes mid-step. Realisation dawns, a slow smile spreads across his face.

Yes, he does wish he'd put a few quid on his recovery.

Because for the first time, he knows without a doubt that he's getting through this.

* * *

"What's wrong?"

Kieren shrugs, shoulder bumping Simon's. They lie side by side on Simon's narrow bed, the laptop open on the table top as one of Kieren's YouTube playlists fills the room with gentle music.

"I just miss it, sometimes," he says quietly, eyes riveted on the ceiling.

"Yeah?" Simon nudges, turning his head towards him. "What're you missing today?"

"Drawing," Kieren says, smiling slightly. "Used to draw all the time at home. Guess bringing a sketchbook was the last thing on my mind…"

Simon watches his face for a second, the younger boy's brown eyes shining wistfully. He reaches across Kieren's chest to the table, fumbling around for something and finally finding it. He presses the pen into Kieren's hand with a smile. "Draw something."

Kieren smirks, amused. "Where? In the air?"

"Not sure my pen's up to that much," Simon chuckles. After a moment's hesitation he extends his arm again, draping it palm-up across Kieren's chest. Kieren's finger traces the track marks delicately.

"You sure?" he whispers.

Simon nods. Kieren sits up, Simon's arm sliding onto his lap. He gently holds it in place by the wrist and uncaps the pen, moving the tip closer to his pale skin. "Sorry. Not exactly a blank canvas," Simon mutters jokily, voice tinged with sadness. It hurts, seeing his marred skin against Kieren's smooth arms.

"Same," Kieren grimaces, turning his left hand a moment to flash the fraying bandage. "Don't worry- I can work with this."

The first touch is cold, the gentle prod feeling a little too close to the phantom stab of a needle on Simon's sensitive skin. But then Kieren's hand moves, the nib sweeps across his wrist in a gentle circle around the first scar, spiralling outwards with a feather-touch.

He doesn't watch, but he can feel sweeps and spirals as they decorate his skin, feels the pen skirt nimbly around the raised purple flaws. After a while, curiosity gets the better of him and he glances down. "Huh."

"What?" Kieren asks absentmindedly, deep in concentration.

"Should've known you'd be a Van Gogh fan," Simon murmurs.

Kieren smiles shyly as he finishes another wave, delicate patterns swirling away from the angry marks he's transformed into blazing stars. "Yeah. He's my favourite."

He pauses, pen hovering an inch from Simon's skin. "I've heard a story about 'im," he says quietly, returning to his sketching with a sad smile. "Not sure if it's true or not. Apparently once 'e drank yellow paint, because he thought yellow was the colour of happiness. He thought if he drank the  _colour_  of happiness, it'd put the happiness inside him."

Simon ignores the slowly spreading masterpiece on his arm, captivated by Kieren's face as the light gleams off the honesty in his eyes.

"I always understood him, what he went through," Kieren says, brow furrowing. "But I never understood that."

"No?" Simon asks softly, enraptured.

"No," Kieren confirms with another sweep of the pen. "I get where he was comin' from- if his sadness came from the inside, I get why he wanted to wash it out, but it seems like the wrong way to do it. I mean, what good is a happy colour if you can't  _see_  it? If it was me, trying to fix myself with colours, I wouldn't hide it away inside me where I could never see it. I'd… I'd paint my walls with it, I'd dye my clothes with it. I'd put it everywhere, so it was never out of sight…"

He looks up, frowning. "Sorry," he mumbles apologetically, turning back to his work. "I'm rambling."

"I like hearin' yeh talk," Simon says softly, sincerely, fingers tangling in the loose end of Kieren's bandage.

"Even about boring art shit?" Kieren asks teasingly, but he can't quite cover the uncertainty in his tone. Simon's heart breaks for him- the classic example of a kid who's been told he's boring so many times that he's started to believe it.

"Especially about 'boring art shit'," Simon says, gently pulling his arm away so he can prop himself up on his elbow. He leans up, his lips ghosting over Kieren's tenderly as the younger man's eyes flutter closed. He presses kisses to Kieren's closed eyelids, his forehead, his cheeks and jaw, feeling his tense frame soften under his touch. He could happily melt along with him.

* * *

The small touches become longer, more frequent. Kieren sits closer to him, holds his hand under the table, runs his fingers absentmindedly through his hair when they sit together on the couch with the radio softly filling the room with jazz or classical, whatever Mrs. Monroe is using as a soundtrack to her chores and crocheting today.

Simon once again finds himself wondering how much of this Kieren has done in the past- he's not heard all the details about the famous Rick Macy yet, but it doesn't sound like the two of them had had a particularly fulfilling relationship. Hiding away, sneaking around, walking round every day pretending not to feel what they felt. He doesn't blame Rick for it- from what he hears about the kid's dad he didn't have much of a choice- but it angers him all the same. Kieren doesn't deserve to be hidden away like someone's dirty little secret. He deserves better than that.

_He deserves better than me._

Sometimes the kisses grow long, the touches more firm, insistent. Kieren is building up to something, and Simon knows what that something is.

But as much as he wants Kieren- wants every part of him from the hair on his head to the tips of his toes- he can't give him what he wants.

Kieren may not be breakable- quite the opposite, actually- but he is young. Too young for Simon- nearly ten years between them, Kieren barely over the threshold into adulthood. What's more he's good, and he's pure and gentle, and he definitely deserves better than a twenty-seven year old (ex) drug addict with an inferiority complex for what may very well be his first time. God, this kid has terrible taste in men…

So whenever Kieren gets too close he shies away, makes excuses, feigns illness (not exactly hard given his current condition), anything to keep him at arm's length.

Simon has disappointed a lot of people in his life.

He doesn't want Kieren to be one of them.

* * *

Kieren has no idea what time it is, and he honestly couldn't care less. His fingers bunch harder in the fabric of Simon's shirt, holding tight as they kiss slowly and tenderly in the dark of Simon's room. He'd never known kissing could be like this- so unhurried, guilt-free, just  _comforting_. Occasionally Simon shudders against him- lingering traces of withdrawal fevers making his body tremble- but he's better now than he's ever been, solid and stable beneath his hands.

He doesn't even realise those hands have unclenched from the fabric and wondered down until he feels skin beneath his fingertips, feels Simon's stomach muscles twitch slightly at the contact.

The Irish man breaks the kiss with a gasp, misty eyes meeting Kieren's across the pillow in the darkened room. He carefully lowers his hand from Kieren's face, gently guiding the redhead's wandering hand away from his stomach and back to his shoulder.

Kieren watches him, swallowing back a twinge of self-doubt. "You do that a lot."

"Do what?" Simon murmurs.

"Pull away," Kieren says softly, the hand now on Simon's shoulder gripping a little tighter. He feels the older man tense up beneath him, but he keeps going. "I mean, you can just tell me if it's too fast, or you just don't… want to," he says lamely, seriously wishing he had the blue-eyed man's way with words.

Simon shakes his head slightly against the pillow, fingers reaching back up to cup Kieren's jaw. "That's not it…"

"Then what is it?" Kieren asks, somehow both worried and frustrated. A straight answer would be nice, just this  _once_. This is the kind of situation where he'd really prefer not to have any ambiguity.

"I just…" Simon begins, searching Kieren's face with doubt in his eyes. "Are you sure 'bout this?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Kieren asks softly, reaching up to stroke a thumb across Simon's pale cheekbone.

Simon shrugs against the covers, not meeting Kieren's eyes. "I'm too old for you, yeh know…"

It seems like a reasonable misgiving, but Kieren knows that's not really what's bothering him. Or at least not the main thing. "Eh, what's nine years these days, really?" he murmurs, trying to keep his voice light- he doesn't want Simon to keep doing this, building everything up in his head to be an insurmountable obstacle.

Simon stares at him, and his gaze is still just a doubtful as ever. The age gap isn't what he's scared about, not really. It's obvious- frankly if he was  _that_  opposed to their relationship he wouldn't even be indulging in all the kisses and caresses they shared every night. He's not worried that he's too old.

He's worried that he's not good enough.

Sometimes Simon will completely blindside him with a show of affection or admiration, kind words of praise higher than anything Kieren's heard before. He'll call him words like 'beautiful', or 'incredible', throw them out there like he doesn't even need to think about it. It's flattering, of course, but Kieren's so unaccustomed to the praise that he finds himself stuttering and stammering in response, or cutting him off with a kiss before he can say anything else to confuse him. Maybe it's just some Florence Nightingale thing since he's been taking care of him these past weeks, maybe it's because he seems to have inadvertently saved his life twice, but Simon looks at him like he can't even believe he's real sometimes.

Despite all his obvious flaws- the drugs, the cynicism, his obvious feelings of inferiority- Kieren still has a hard time getting to grips with the fact that this gorgeous, kind, amazing man can look at him like that. Stare right at his scared, youthful face and lanky body like he's some kind of masterpiece, and not just a heartbroken kid way out of his depth in the real world.

Kieren takes in every inch of his pale face in the moonlight, blue eyes full of uncertainty. He leans in and presses another gentle kiss to his lips, feeling the slightest tremor as the Irish man rests a hand on his cheek and reciprocates.

Kieren has his doubts, too. Of course he does- here he is, three weeks after nearly killing himself and running away from home, sleeping in a bed with a recovering addict he'd pulled from the gutter, kissing him just months after Rick,  _his_  Rick, died alone in some godforsaken no man's land. He wants to be disgusted with himself.

But it's so fucking hard to feel guilty with Simon gazing at him like he's the only thing that matters.

"Simon…" he whispers, breaking away from his mouth to kiss his cheek, his jaw, brush his lips across his ear. "Trust me, I'm sure."

Simon breathes in sharply, possibly still wanting to argue, but he clearly just doesn't have it in him to resist anymore. He pulls Kieren's mouth back to his own, kissing him softly but hungrily as he braces himself on his arm to lean over him, pushing Kieren down into the mattress with his weight. Kieren hums contentedly against his lips, feeling one of Simon's hands reach down to grip the back of his neck and hold him close. Even with his tall frame and large hands he's so careful, handling Kieren like a priceless artefact, the strong arms that have been regaining their definition in the wake of his recovery and routine work-outs never pressing too hard.

Kieren thinks about how this could have been different, how it could've been if he and Rick had done anything more than chaste kisses in the dark- fifteen years old, a first time stolen on the cold floor of the den, Rick's breath in his ear reeking of booze and desperation. He immediately feels guilty for thinking it, but it's true. For the first time, he's actually glad that they held back. They were too young, too riddled with guilt to have had anything more than what they'd got. Maybe if they'd only had more time…

But now isn't the time for thoughts of Rick, or that old den and all its memories.

He tugs gently but insistently at the hem of Simon's shirt, waiting for the dark-haired man to lift his arms so he can pull it over his head. It's barely off before Simon is surging down once again, not letting Kieren's lips go for a second longer than necessary. But now when Kieren reaches up to him he finds soft skin beneath his fingers, warm flesh responding to his touch.

He breathlessly breaks away from the kiss, pushing Simon back so he can look at him, see the bruises and scrapes that decorate his pale skin like war paint. Each mark must have a story, just like the tracks on his arms. Some of them are new and vivid, some are faded like old photographs, but Kieren catalogues them all, running his fingers gently over each blemish, feeling Simon shiver every time he leans down to trace his lips lightly against the surface.

Eventually Simon can't take it anymore, pulling Kieren's head away from his chest to drag it back to his level, colliding with him in a bruising kiss as he reaches down to unbutton his shirt as quickly as his clumsy, shaking hands can manage. Kieren kisses back, breath catching as Simon's fingers brush his chest through the opening. He feels heat beneath his skin, rising in his stomach and abdomen, a wave of sensation that has him shrugging out of the oversized shirt as quickly as possible in favour of wrapping his arms round Simon's waist and pulling him close. He can't get enough as he drags his fingers over every inch of skin he can reach, sighing as he feels Simon's lips burning a trail along his neck and shoulder.

It's timid at first, but it's not long before Simon's eyes alight, his grip strengthening as he begins to take charge.

It is not in Kieren's nature to be passive or submissive, both traits he forgoes in favour of brashness whenever possible, but there's something so captivating about seeing Simon's long-dulled eyes burn with unbridled desire that has him lying back and observing with bated breath as the Irish man's lips trace his body like a brush across a blank canvas. This isn't like the old days. This isn't staying quiet and gentle as Rick kisses him, terrified that any false moves could send him running home to his father. This isn't meekly falling back and staying silent as people push him around and call him names, staying quiet in the hopes of fading into the background. There is no background- as far as Simon and his ardent gaze is concerned, Kieren is literally the only thing in the universe. It's not fear or a fading sense of duty that holds him in place; it's white-hot desire coursing through his veins as he watches every movement of Simon's mouth and hands across his skin, his pale eyes almost pitch black with yearning, strands of dark hair glimmering silver in the soft glow of the moon through the window.

_Beautiful…_

* * *

Simon's first impulse is to let go, go wild, take hold of the body being offered to him and ravish it like he always used to when this was his only distraction from the endless cold.

But he finds himself softening his grip, brushing gentle kisses across every spare centimetre of skin he can find, trailing his fingers lightly along it and not even once thinking about digging his nails in.

This really isn't like any other experience he's ever had. It's not a drunken one-night stand, it's not an alternative payment for drugs or shelter, it's not even a desperate grapple for human contact like he's searched for on many a lonely night in the past. As he brushes his lips over Kieren's hip while slipping his thumb into the waistband of his jeans, he realises he doesn't even care what he gets out of this. Right now he is quite simply living for Kieren- for the way his hands fist in the rumpled blankets, the way his muscles contract whenever his fingers find a sensitive patch, for the way he looks down on him as he explores every inch. Jesus, his eyes had been dark before, but  _now…_

"Simon…" Kieren breathes raggedly, almost pleading.

He nods, moving back up Kieren's body to claim his mouth once more, tugging at his jeans and feeling Kieren lift his hips from the bed as he slides them off and throws them aside. He feels Kieren's fingers thread through his hair, he leans into the touch almost unknowingly. Hands fumble, layers of fabric are peeled away, and suddenly they're skin to skin, clothes lying carelessly strewn across the floor. The contact is almost too much to bear, his mind is turning cartwheels as sparks fly wherever their bodies touch.

He pulls back slightly, and sees Kieren gazing up at him with eyes blacker than space. "Y'alright?" he rasps softly, his voice gruff.

Kieren nods, but uncertainty flickers in his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah…"

Simon pulls back further, watching Kieren's face with concern. "Kier?"

Kieren watches him, and Simon can practically hear the cogs turning in his head. Maybe he's changed his mind. Maybe he's repulsed now he's seen the train wreck of Simon's body beneath his clothes. Maybe this is all too fast- fuck, is this his first time? Oh, God- he'd suspected as much but now it's really hitting home, just how fucking  _big_ this is.

"'S just…" Kieren whispers, and Simon thinks he sees something like fear in his eyes. He feels his fingers tighten on the back of his head, sees him bite his lip before opening his mouth again.

"Say you love me, again…"

He says it so softly Simon almost missed it. His brain leaps to catch up, suddenly remembering that night on the bridge, that confession so quiet he wasn't even sure if Kieren had heard it. Well, he doesn't need to wonder about that anymore.

"I love you," he murmurs, surprising himself by not hesitating a second. He leans down again, whispering against the curve of Kieren's neck. "I love you…"

He breathes the words across every pore, feeling Kieren's grip tighten and his body mould to his as he says them over and over, willing Kieren to believe it, willing himself to embrace it. Right now he doesn't care that Kieren doesn't say it back, doesn't even  _think_  about the possibility that this will never last. This moment's too perfect to waste on such trifling thoughts and insignificant worries.

Bathed in the silvery moonlight, pushing words and reason aside, minds and bodies drawn inexorably together like atoms at the start of time, Simon feels like he's seeing the sky for the first time.

For one blissful moment, every worthless star in the galaxy shines like the rarest diamond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all know I love you, right?
> 
> (BTW if you wanna read this with music sometime, I'd recommend 'New Slang' by the Shins for the bit where Kier draws on Si's arm- that's what I imagine they're listening to at that bit!)
> 
> So, hope you enjoyed this delightful bundle of romance- aren't I good to you? ;) And it is in no way compensation for any kind of upcoming painful separation period or cruel intervention of fate- oh, fuck, sorry, ignore that, fuck...
> 
> *ahem* So, until next time!
> 
> *backs slowly away*


	12. Silence Is Golden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there!
> 
> Well, here we go again! Y'all were pretty quiet last chapter- hope you liked that lovely smattering of Siren-ness! Some more smatterings to come, before I do something immeasurably cruel no doubt.
> 
> Coming up: our Kier takes an important step in the road to recovery, but what does it mean for his relationship with Simon? Enjoy!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3

"Alright there,  _pal?"_

"Shut up," Jem grumbles, but her eye roll is a little less malicious than usual. Amy grins, taking a chug of her (still completely scalding) tea. She'd popped round for the sake of seeing Sue, only to find that both the elder Walkers were out today. Fortunately, Jem seemed happy enough to partake in a drink and a chat.

It's plain to see that the girl's still cut up about her brother- well, who wouldn't be? But she smiles more now. She talks to Amy (well, sometimes), she doesn't explode at her parents as much, and from the sounds of it she's back to talking to her oldest friend Lisa. Good for her. Really the best thing she could possibly do right now is surround herself with friends.

They're not exactly deep in conversation right this second. Some days they chat, other days Jem decides she'd rather sit in companionable silence. Frankly either option is a step up from the old days of locking herself in her room and cranking the heavy metal so loud that she can't hear herself think. But Amy likes it when Jem talks, even if it's just about the horrible girls at school or the new album she's bought. Talking and listening, that's what being a friend is, and it's a skill Amy Dyer has in spades.

Jem looks at her from over her steaming mug, deep in thought. Amy waits patiently- if there's something she wants to say, she'll say it.

And it looks like she's about to when the house phone rings.

"Ugh, I'll get it," Jem mutters grumpily, rolling her eyes and dragging herself to her feet. Amy chuckles- that girl may love being left alone from time to time, but she hates having to pick up the phone and field all her parents' calls. Too much like hard work.

Jem slumps over the living room table where the phone has been dropped, picking it up and clicking the 'receive' button before holding it to her ear. "Hello?"

Amy gazes thoughtfully out the window, watching the late morning sun as it struggles to peek through the clouds. It's a few moments before she realises how quiet Jem's gone. She turns to look at her.

Jem stands in the middle of the living room, her free hand fisted at her side while the other holds the phone in a white-knuckled grip. Amy stands up and takes a step closer, concern clouding her features, mouth opening to ask what's wrong.

Then Jem speaks, one simple choked-out word, and all Amy's unspoken questions are answered.

"…Kier?"

* * *

The day started off as most days do. Simon woke up to an empty bed, having a brief moment of panic before realising that Kieren must have crept back to his own room sometime in the small hours. The boy still wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea that either of his parents could walk in on them both snuggled up together at any moment. Obviously sneaking around had become second nature to the closeted kid from the countryside.

But life was trundling on in the way it always did (well, the way it always had over the last few days. Somehow it feels like so much longer). Simon woke up, staggered to the kitchen, kissed his smiling mother on the cheek as she offered him a plate full of toast. Kieren emerged half an hour later, blinking in the harsh light of day- he wasn't much of a morning person. He just slouched over to the seat at Simon's side, leaning his head on his shoulder and almost dozing off right then and there while Lana made him some breakfast. Sometimes Lana will give them a knowing smile, like she knows exactly why they're both so tired, but she never says anything on the matter (especially in the presence of his father, for which Simon is immeasurably grateful).

Now it's almost eleven, and Simon has Kieren's feet in his lap and an open poetry book in his hands ( _Yeats_ , Kieren had taken quite a liking to it). He'd read aloud for a bit, but Kieren had dozed off again about halfway through 'A Dialogue of Self and Soul'. Still, Simon couldn't be angry at him- frankly he was fucking adorable when he slept. Jesus, he was going soft.

He stares down at the page, the same page he's been on for the last twenty minutes. He can barely see the words, the letters swimming off the page while his brain struggles to comprehend the situation. He's alive. He's clean (well, mostly). He's back with his family. He doesn't want to leave again. He isn't sad, or depressed or hopeless. He's in love. That in itself is a hard enough concept to grasp, even without taking into consideration the ridiculous, unprecedented cosmic fluke that his feelings are (at least partially) returned. That was a plot twist he'd never seen coming.

He looks up from his book with a smile, expecting to see Kieren's eyes closed and mouth hanging slightly open in his slumber. Instead he sees bright eyes focused on the ceiling, brow creased deep in thought. It's a look he's seen on his face many times in the past few days.

"What's wrong?"

Kieren leans the side of his face against the back of the sofa, smiling softly at Simon. "Nothing."

"Liar," Simon says bluntly, raising an eyebrow.

"Fine," Kieren huffs, pulling his legs from Simon's lap and tucking his feet beneath himself. "It's just... sometimes," he says slowly. "When we're together, and you're feeling okay, it just feels so  _easy_. And sometimes it's so easy that I forget…"

"Forget?" Simon prods gently when Kieren goes silent.

Kieren sighs, closing his eyes. "Sometimes I forget about what I've left behind."

Simon stays silent, waiting for him to elaborate in his own time. He doesn't disappoint.

"I just  _left,_ Simon," he mutters bitterly, and it's easy to see that the bitterness is aimed at himself. "I didn't even think. I have parents at home, and a sister. They have no fuckin' idea where I am- I could be dead, for all they know!"

"You could call them," Simon suggests quietly, immediately feeling guilty- that would be a painful conversation for everyone involved. "Put their minds at ease."

"I know. I should, I know that," Kieren says quietly, burying his face in the cushioned back of the sofa.

Simon stares at him, the strange boy so far away from home. "You feel guilty."

Kieren nods against the leather.

"For leaving?"

Another nod.

"And for not thinking about them while you've been gone?"

"Yes," comes the grumbled reply.

Simon smiles, but he's a little too sad to make it sincere. "So basically you're feeling guilty for  _not_  feeling guilty?"

"Simon," Kieren groans. "It's too early in the morning for this shit."

Despite the serious conversation, Simon chuckles. He's such a teenager. "It's nearly lunchtime, y'know."

"We only had breakfast five minutes ago," Kieren says, confused.

"That was three hours ago. You fell asleep."

" _Oh,_ " Kieren mouths silently, cheeks going red.

Simon smiles, reaching out to run a hand through Kieren's ruffled copper hair fondly. As endearing as scatter-brained Kieren was, it wasn't the natural order of things. He's been sleeping more and more over the last few days, often missing huge chunks of time without even realising. In all honesty, it's getting worrying. Maybe his guilt is weighing on his mind more than he cares to admit- it must be bad if it has him retreating to unconsciousness on a regular basis.

"I think yeh should call 'em," Simon says softly, resting his hand on his neck gently. It wouldn't be a pleasant call, for sure, but it was important. And he owes Kieren all the encouragement he can possibly give- where would he be right now if the brown-eyed boy hadn't convinced him to go home to his parents all those weeks ago?

Kieren's eyes are wide, his slim fingers tapping nervously on his knees. "Yeah, but… what do I even s _ay?_ "

"'I'm still alive' might be a good starting point," Simon shrugs.

"And then what?" Kieren snaps, glowering. "'Don't worry, I'm fine, I'm shacking up with a drug addict- he's very nice, don't worry! Washed the blood outta me hoodie and everything'?"

" _Ex-_ addict," Simon corrects with a smirk. "And yeh don't even have to go into that much detail if you don't want- just say you're okay, say you're safe, say you'll see them around sometime, hang up. It's somethin', at least."

Kieren grins. "Using the 'E-X' word, are we?"

It would seem so. Simon shrugs, an unconvincing attempt to downplay the weight of the words. "What can I say? I'm feeling pretty good today."

Kieren glances towards the kitchen, finding it empty. Lana must be upstairs. He turns back, leaning swiftly forward to press a gentle kiss to Simon's surprised lips.

"Oi," Simon laughs quietly, gently pushing Kieren back and smiling knowingly (before any extended contact gives him more butterflies in his stomach). "No changing the subject."

Kieren groans as Simon hands him the cordless house phone, glowering at the handset. "Do I have to?"

"Can't force yeh to do anything," Simon murmurs, fiddling absentmindedly with the fraying end of Kieren's bandage. "Wouldn't want to, anyway. I just think it'd be good for yeh- straighten things out before it's too late."

"Fuckin' hate it when yer right," Kieren mutters, glaring daggers at the phone in his hand.

He always does this- puts on an angry face and an aggressive tone, cover up his fear. Simon wonders who he learned that from. He reaches out, catching Kieren's hand in his own and clasping it tightly.

"'S okay," he says softly. "I'll stick by yeh, alright?"

Kieren meets his gaze steadily, and he must draw some confidence from his presence because he looks down to the phone and keys in a well-memorised number in a flurry of movement. The fear is still there as he raises it to his ear, and it intensifies a moment after the ringing stops and a bored-sounding female voice answers.

But Simon leans in, kisses his cheek gently, rests his forehead against Kieren's.

Finally, Kieren lets out a faltering breath, and speaks.

* * *

Kieren feels his heart race a mile a minute as the phone rings, each shrill tone echoing deafeningly in his eardrums. Only Simon's hand in his own keeps him from getting up and running away.

"Hello?"

He feels tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. Fuck, he's missed that voice.

Crippling fear assaults him once more- he can't decide if it's better or worse that the first person he contacts at home is his sister. Would he have been better off with one of his parents? Would Jem just shout him down? Oh, God, he has absolutely no way to justify himself,  _fuck._

Simon squeezes his hand, kisses his cheek. He feels his forehead, warm and reassuring, against his own. He closes his eyes, a laboured breath escaping his lips. He grips the phone tighter.

"Hi, Jem."

Silence. The line buzzes with background static. The fear returns- did she hang up? Jesus, did she  _faint?_  Is she just allowing her rage to build slowly in preparation to give him the tongue-lashing of his life?

"…Kier?"

Her voice sounds so small, disbelieving. He nods before remembering she can't see him. "Yeah. It's me."

A strange sound echoes on the line. It takes him a moment to realise that she's crying.

"Fuckin' Hell, Kier," she sobs, angry relief colouring her voice. "Where the bloody fuck 'ave you been?!"

He almost bursts into tears himself. Relief washes over him, flooding his senses as he continues to nod uselessly against the phone. "Long story," he laughs breathlessly.

She's not angry. Well, okay, she is angry- furious, in fact- but she's also relieved and she's not going to tear him a new one right at this second. It's better than he could have ever hoped for.

"Well, what 'appened?" she demands, he can imagine her arms waving angrily on the other end. "Where are yeh? What've you been doing for the last month, eh? Come on, I'm all fuckin' ears!"

"Jem," he says, wincing. "Look I can't tell yeh where I am at the moment-"

"Why? Holy shit, are you bein' held hostage?"

"What? No! No, it's complicated, is all. I'll tell yeh soon, just… not now, okay?"

He hears her slow intake of breath, and can almost sense her sharp nod. "Yeah, okay. All right. Look, yer okay aren't yeh?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," he glances at Simon, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Great, actually."

"Well, fan-fuckin'-tastic," she says dryly. He can feel her glare through the phone.

"Look, Jem," he says, swiping at his eyes and the tears forming at the edges. "I just called to say I'm all right- I'm not dead or dying or anything. Guess there's a lot more to it than that, but I'll tell yeh some other time."

"When're you coming back?"

_A week? A month? A year? Never?_

"Soon," he says quietly. "I swear."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well, okay, then," she says huffily. He can still hear her sniffles, so the standoffish act isn't entirely effective, but he decides not to point that out.

"Tell Mum and Dad I'm okay, yeah?"

"Will do," she says. She sighs, the sound rattling across the line. "Yer off now, aren't yeh?"

"'Fraid so," he says gently, gripping the phone tighter.

"Well…" she says, he can practically feel her wringing the phone in her hands. "I'll see yeh soon, yeah?"

It isn't a question. "Promise. Take care, alright, sis?"

"Yeah," she whispers, starting to choke up again. "Yeah, you too."

"Bye," he breathes, blinking back tears.

"See yer," she mutters. There's a moment of static, followed by the dead silence of an empty line as she reluctantly hangs up.

He drops the phone on the sofa beside him, a long, rattling sigh slipping from his lips. He reaches up to his face. His fingers come away damp- obviously he's not as good at holding back tears as he'd hoped.

He's almost startled when another hand joins his, gently dabbing at the shining streaks on his cheeks. He looks up to Simon, blue eyes looking down on him with something in between pride and concern.

"All right?" he asks, thumb stroking Kieren's cheek tenderly.

Kieren nods, leaning forward. He presses his face into Simon's chest, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist.

As he feels Simon's arms drape gently around his shoulders, he finally allows himself to cry.

"'S okay," Simon murmurs, rubbing small circles on his back.

"I told her I'd be back soon," Kieren sobs quietly, panic rising in his chest. "I'm gonna have to-"

"Shhhh," Simon soothes gently, one hand sliding up to comb through Kieren's hair. "'S fine. No rush- just take all the time yeh need, all right?"

Keiren nods against his chest, tears still flowing from his eyes, soaking Simon's shirt through to his skin. At least he doesn't seem to mind.

Cuddled tightly against his body, arms clinging to him like a lifeline, Kieren is once again struck by the sheer oddity of their situation. Here they are, over three weeks after two mutually failed suicide attempts, holding onto each other like they've been together for years, like they anchor each other to the world. Sometimes, leaning into Simon's embrace, it feels like the Irish man was made for him. Sometimes they fit so perfectly together that he forgets for a moment about everything- the drugs, the age gap, the fact that they've known each other for less than a month and were both half dead when they met. When he hugs Simon, pushes his face into the crook of his neck at the perfect height and feels strong arms at his back, it feels like he's found his slot in the universe. For a second, everything clicks into place.

He burrows into it now, folding into the cradle of Simon's arms with a sigh as his eyes flutter closed, draws strength from the strong heartbeat under his own.

He's terrified.

They'll be relieved to see him- he knows that without a doubt now. But he has no idea what else awaits him. Will they demand to know what happened? Is he going to have to tell them about his almost-suicide? Rick? What about Jem- will she forgive him or has he essentially thrown whatever brother-sister trust bond they had under the bus? What does he tell them about his time away?

What does he tell them about Simon?

He shrivels into himself, screwing his eyes tighter shut.

Simon can't come with him. He has a family, now. He has his life back.

Kieren feels like crying all over again, his fingers clinging to Simon's shirt.

He has to go and see his family. He owes them an explanation. He belongs with them, back in that drab old village with all its memories, good and bad.

But he's not sure he's ready to give up his newly-discovered space in the universe just yet.

* * *

With shaking hands, Jem presses the 'end call' button, the silent phone falling from her hand to the table.

"That was 'im, wasn't it?" Amy asks softly, taking a step closer, arms crossed awkwardly over her chest.

Jem nods mutely, sinking slowly down onto the couch. Within moments her shoulders are shaking with silent sobs.

Amy hangs back a second, conflicted. Every instinct screams to step up and comfort her, but Jem hasn't proved to be much of a hugging person in the past and she doesn't want to offend her. But when the girl's sobs become louder, she throws caution to the wind.

She strides over, dropping onto the sofa at Jem's side and laying a comforting arm across her back.

Maybe it's the shock, making her drop the icy façade, but as soon as they make contact Jem sags under the weight of her sobs, leaning into Amy's side and crying into her shoulder. Amy doesn't speak- no matter how much she wants to- just holding Jem tight through the tears. She'd love to talk it out, offer mindless encouragements, listen to what the prodigal brother had to say, but it's not important right at this second.

Sometimes being a friend is knowing when to stay silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there it is! Kinda tiny compared to the last chapter, but important nonetheless!
> 
> For the next few chapters, I'd like you to keep one thing in your mind: it's always darkest before the dawn.
> 
> Until next time! X


	13. I'll Miss You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moi, again!
> 
> Fancy some guilt-ridden fluff? Yeeeeaaaaahhh, 'course you do!
> 
> Quick note: I'm so used to being a girl and writing about girls/zombies/teenage boys who haven't reached that stage yet that I sometimes forget about a little thing called facial hair, guess I haven't mentioned it once this whole time xD So y'know what, I'm gonna go ahead and say that Kieren has a baby face and doesn't have that problem, and Simon has spent most of this fic in a state of rough stubbly scruffiness since he keeps a razor on him but rarely uses it (ain't nobody got time for that!). Sorry, that was kind of an oversight on my part, but I'm sure your lovely imaginative minds have been filling in the blanks!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3 Also lyrics mentioned belong to The Smiths!

"Kieren?"

Kieren remains silent, hugging his knees to his chest with his back against the wall. His curled toes dig into the soft sheets, creating the slightest dip in the old mattress. He hopes that maybe the owner of the voice will assume he's still asleep and just go away.

Another knock on the door shatters those hopes. "Kieren, y'alright?"

"Fine," Kieren says, just loud enough to be heard. "Just tired. I'll be down in a bit."

Silence.

"Okay," Simon says quietly, barely audible and far from convinced. Kieren hears his feet shuffle away towards the stairs, waits until he hears the tell-tale squeak of that tricky top step before he lets out the breath he'd been holding. He sighs deeply, head flopping down against his knees.

Three days have passed since that fateful phone call. He's already missing the sound of Jem's voice.

He'd meant what he said. He was coming home soon- he had to, really. He'd been gone long enough without explanation already, the time had come to crawl out of the woodwork.

Unfortunately, it was  _much_ easier said than done.

He groans, tilting his head back. It bangs against the wall, slightly painfully, but aside from an initial wince he really couldn't care less. Eyes fixed on a crack in the ceiling, he mentally recites his options.

_Option A) Suck it up, go home and face the music. It can't be all bad, they'll be relieved to see you even if they're pissed. Yeah, you might be going back to everything you hate about that place, too, but at least now you know Simon- who's to say you can't come and visit from time to time?_

_Option B) Call Jem again, tell her you're not coming back, hope that they'll move on with their lives while you hide away with your new boyfriend for the foreseeable future until he gets sick of you._

His head bangs against the wall again. It's not an accident this time.

Of course, he knows which option he  _should_ take- obviously the noblest course of action would be to make amends for his mistakes, patch things up with his sister and his parents, and try and get back to the sort-of life he'd had before.

Maybe it's spoiled him, all this time with Simon- the open affection, the honesty, the feeling of freedom he has now that he knows someone as screwed up as he is that he doesn't need to wear a mask for. But now that he's had a taste he can't imagine anything worse than going back to the way things were. Back home, he was an outcast. Okay, maybe he still is, but at least Simon is too. They have each other, or at least they do for now.

He has a place here. It's not ambitious, or glamourous. They're still living with Simon's parents, they still deal with hostility from his father and they're both still unemployed layabouts with not a penny to their name. It's certainly a far cry from the art school he'd been accepted into, and the hopefully successful career it may have led onto. But it's a place, nonetheless- a tiny little space in the world that fits him like a glove. He's not sure he's ready to vacate it just yet, if ever.

But he has to make a decision, one way or another. Because for the past three days he's probably been a shitty person to be around. He hides away, barely speaks, sleeps for most of the day, sneaks out of Simon's room in the small hours to slip back into his own bed. He's not sure why he does that- it's either because he's not keen on the idea of Simon's parents walking in on them, or he just doesn't want to face Simon in the morning knowing full well he'll be sleeping the day away in his own room. Probably both.

_You've got to be either here or there, no more waiting around in limbo._

He flops onto his side, raising his hands to his head and curling into the rumpled bedcovers with a groan.

He hates tough decisions.

* * *

Simon stalks morosely down the stairs, perhaps stomping a little harder than strictly necessary.

He woke up alone again, despite falling asleep with his face buried in Kieren's soft strawberry blond hair. He wouldn't have minded so much- fair enough, the bloke was self-conscious- if it weren't for the fact that he barely even saw Kieren in the daytime anymore. An appearance here or there, some shared meals, curling up together in the same bed at night, and that was all.

It's all gone downhill since that phone call. Great fucking idea, Simon. Not long ago the kid had finally been crawling out of his shell, now it seems he's been scared right back in.

Of course, he's not the only one who's scared.

Simon knows with a dull sense of certainty that he's going to lose him. Sooner or later Kieren will bite the bullet and go home. He has a family, and Simon has his own. Just because Simon's parents made room for Kieren doesn't mean the gesture will be returned. In fact, it's probably better if it isn't- no parent would be happy on seeing their runaway son return home with a shuddering ex-junkie in tow, especially not one nearly ten years his senior.

But it would be selfish to keep Kieren here.

No. He has to go back. Considering how he seems to be wasting away with worry at the moment, it's really the only option for him.

"Morning," Lana smiles as he rounds the corner into the kitchen.

"Mornin', Mum," he mumbles, leaning down to give her the customary peck on the cheek. Fucking Hell, it's like he never even left.

As anticipated, she can sense his foreboding the second he makes eye contact. "What's wrong?"

He sighs, slumping into a chair at the table and rubbing his eyes. "Have a guess."

Her eyes flicker upwards. "He all right?"

Simon shrugs, slouching forward with his elbows on the table. "Dunno, he won't talk to me."

She sits down beside him, rubbing his back with one hand as another weary sigh escapes his lips.

"I just…" he stares up at the ceiling, as if he can meet Kieren's eyes through the plaster and search his gaze for answers. "I'm stuck, and he's not helpin'. No feckin' clue what I can do, or say. I just want 'im to stop worrying so much, but there's sod all I can do to help, I'm useless…"

"Ah, now don't say that,  _alanna,_ " she chides, patting his back firmly as she gets up to tend to the screeching kettle. "Y'ought to give yourself more credit than that!"

"You're my mum, you're s'posed to say that," Simon grumbles, but a small smile tugs at his lips. He may act indifferent, but that doesn't make his relief at being once again accepted by his mother any less powerful.

"Well, yeh should," she chuckles, pouring the steaming liquid into the two empty mugs on the counter. "Kieren wouldn't be showing an interest if yeh were useless, would he? He's got better sense than that!"

"Trust me, he doesn't," Simon mutters, taking his mug and adding three generous spoons of sugar. "His taste in men is abysmal…"

"It's always the same," she says airily, shaking her head. "It's always the nice ones- they never know how good they can have it," she sits beside him, covering his hand with her own. "Maybe it's about time he got what 'e deserves, eh?"

"What's that s'posed to mean?" Simon asks, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.

"You've got a good'un, there, Simon," she says with a gentle shrug, sipping her tea. "I'd hold on to 'im if I were you. Treat him right."

She hesitates a moment before setting her mug down, reaching into her handbag where it hangs on the back of the chair. She fishes out her wallet, and he gapes as she holds out a few notes to him.

"Go on, take it," she smiles, pressing the money into his hand. "Take him somewhere- or maybe buy him some new clothes, he's been loungin' around in those awful old shirts of yours for ages!"

"Seriously?" Simon asks, crinkling the paper in his hands disbelievingly. He's amazed that she'd trust him with it- you'd be surprised what you can get for forty quid if you know where to look (and boy, does he know where to look). His skin prickles at the thought.

"I know what you're thinkin'," she says, smiling knowingly. "And yes, I trust yeh."

"Why?"

She shrugs. "Well, I know what you would've done with that in the old days, but you didn't have Kieren, did yeh?" she smiles, eyes shining. "Honestly, Simon, I never thought I'd see yeh head over heels like this, such a cynical laddie when yeh were growin' up!"

"Surprised me, too," he smiles. Understatement of the fucking century.

"Well, let's just say I trust yeh to put him first," she says gently, stroking his hair out of his eyes and tut-tutting at the ragged length of it. "How 'bout yeh go get him, now? Take 'im out for a bit- you could both use the fresh air, I'll bet."

"Yeah," Simon laughs, standing up. "Reckon you're right," he bends down, wrapping one arm round her shoulders and squeezing gently in an awkward but heartfelt one-armed embrace. "Thanks, Mum."

"Have fun," she says, smiling after him as he once again ascends the stairs, this time with a spring in his step. "Oh, and Simon?"

He pokes his head back down, a questioning frown on his face.

"Maybe 'ave a shave."

His hand flies up to his jaw, his slow-growing seven day stubble dangerously close to qualifying as a beard. "Ah, yeah, good idea."

She chuckles as his footsteps fade away. A lot has changed over the years- not least his appearance and attitude- but the careless twelve year-old is still in there, somewhere.

* * *

"Simon, what are we doing?"

"You'll see," the Irish man says with a grin, tugging Kieren along by the hand. The redhead hasn't stopped grumbling since the moment they set foot on the pavement- although he senses guilt beneath the grouch.

Before too long they find themselves back in the familiar square, just off the corner from their favourite music shop. Simon pulls them to a stop outside a small coffee house, turning to face Kieren with a smile as he reaches out to rummage in his jacket pocket (made slightly awkward by the fact that Kieren is currently the one wearing it).

"Si, what's going on?" Kieren asks with a frown, blushing as Simon's hand brushes his chest through his favourite hand-me-down  _Pink Floyd_  t-shirt.

"Tell yeh what's goin' on," Simon beams, finally emerging with the notes in his hand. "We've got pocket money!"

Kieren's eyes widen, partly in wonder and partly in suspicion. "Should I even ask where that came from?"

"I haven't been pick-pocketing if that's what yeh mean," Simon chuckles, tucking the notes into the pocket of his jeans. "Present from Mum- told me to take you out, buy yeh some stuff. New clothes, maybe? Getting' sick of wearing my teenage wardrobe, yet?"

"Actually," Kieren says quietly, blush deepening as he shifts from foot to foot. "I kind of like them. Wearing them, I dunno, they're just… nice, I guess."

"Yeah," Simon says softly, gazing adoringly at the rising pink in the younger man's cheeks. "Yeah, I like when you wear 'em, too."

He reaches out, taking Kieren's hand again. "So, with your permission, there's something else I wanna get yeh."

"Uh, sure, okay," Kieren mumbles, frowning. "What?"

"All in good time," Simon grins, pulling Kieren further along the road.

* * *

Kieren leans wearily against the shop window, tapping his heel against the wall at his back. Another thing he hates is waiting.

Simon had disappeared into their favourite record store a few minutes ago, telling Kieren to stay put. It was kind of frustrating- it wasn't like he was going to have time to wrap whatever he was buying, so what was the point of delaying the inevitable reveal? But Kieren humoured him. Obviously Simon is a relative newcomer to the world of romantic gestures and he clearly wants to do it right.

Romantic gestures. God, now there's a thought. He's not sure he's ever had one before- well, okay, a few secret ones, the candles Rick brought to the cave had been a nice touch. But usually Kieren was the one making the mixtapes. Rick hadn't really been the fool-for-love type.

He really needs to stop letting his mind wander back to Rick- he feels guilty enough without getting into all that again.

He wonders what's brought on this strange, spontaneous act of generosity from Simon, and can only think that it's because he's been ignoring him. Maybe Simon thinks he's done something wrong?  _Shit_ , is he trying to make up for some horrible mistake he hasn't made? Kieren immediately feels even guiltier for hiding away- of course Simon was going to shoulder the blame himself.

He's so busy formulating some kind of apology in his head that he doesn't notice when Simon emerges from the shop. He nearly jumps out of his skin when the Irish man taps his shoulder. He hastily gathers himself, plastering on a smile as his carefully formulated apologies fly from his head.

Simon is holding a wide, flat cardboard sleeve in his hand. It's an old vinyl record, slightly worn round the edges but the cover is still visible on the faded paper.

"Had my eye on this one for a while," Simon says quietly, holding it up for Kieren's inspection.

"'The Smiths'," Kieren reads, smiling. "They're the ones on yer wall, right?"

"That's them," Simon grins, dusting off the careworn cover gently. "This is one of my favourite albums of all time- used to have a record just like this. It was Dad's; bought it when it came out in '86, gave it to me on my thirteenth birthday."

Kieren doesn't question the 'used to', doesn't ask what happened to his copy- chances are it ended in up in the pawn shop along with his guitar. Instead he squints at the cover, red writing on black. "'The Queen is Dead'. Cheery title."

"Alright, so they're not the most upbeat bunch," Simon admits with a laugh, turning the case to look at the cover with a wistful smile. "But I always loved 'em all the same- ever heard them?"

Kieren shakes his head, and Simon rolls his eyes. "'Course not. Feckin' Hell, yeh make me feel ancient sometimes. This albums a classic, great songs- 'There Is a Light That Never Goes Out'?  _To die by your side, it's such a heavenly way to die-_ anything?"

"Actually, yeah," Kieren says, nodding along to the familiar lyrics. "Think I might've heard that one."

"Classic," Simon grins. He turns the box round again, holding it out to Kieren shyly. "Anyway, here yeh go."

"Seriously?" Kieren asks, reaching out to take the cardboard gently between his fingertips. Sounds like it means a lot to Simon- doesn't he want to start rebuilding his own collection, first?

"Yeah, seriously," Simon says, closing Kieren's fingers around the case. "I want yeh to have it."

Kieren stares down at the tattered old box with something approaching awe. "Simon…"

Simon leans in, stopping him with a swift kiss on the lips. Kieren has to blink away his shock- kissing in public is kind of a new experience for him, he hadn't realised they'd made it that far. He's so surprised he doesn't realise he's kissing him back until Simon pulls away and he finds himself chasing the lost touch.

He jerks back and hugs the record to his chest, his cheeks warming. He sort of wants to feel embarrassed about what he just did, but with Simon giving him that look like he's dropped straight from Heaven it's hard to feel self-conscious.

"Simon," he says slowly, carefully, choosing his next words like he can't quite believe he's saying them. He really can't- it's stupid, hasty and selfish, what he's about to ask.

"Yeah?" Simon prompts gently with a quirk of his lips.

Simon's finally rediscovered his family, it's time for Kieren to do the same. They always knew that this couldn't last. Best to just go their separate ways, before either of them gets hurt. Before it becomes too hard to say goodbye.

"Will you come with me?" he whispers, clutching the record tighter, pressing it to his heart.

"To Roarton?" Simon asks, eyebrows shooting up.

Kieren nods, closing his eyes guiltily. He shouldn't have asked. Simon has his life back, he can't expect him to drop it all to come to some ghost town in the sticks with the kid he barely knows. It's selfish, but Kieren doesn't want to leave him behind just yet.

"You sure?"

Kieren's eyes snap open, he looks at Simon's face. He looks nervous, confused, and maybe just a little hopeful.

"Yeah," Kieren says quietly. "I'm sure."

"Why'd yeh want me there?"

He looks so honestly bewildered, Kieren wants to rush into a thousand reasons.  _You saved me, I saved you, you make me feel like I have a place, you make me smile, you fit me like a glove, you're as fucked up as I am, you make me feel like that's not such a bad thing…_

"I'd miss you," he murmurs. Short, simple, barely scratching the surface- but in the end, that's how they'd always worked.

Simon smiles, and it's like watching the sun come out.

"Yeah," he rasps, nodding as a short, breathless laugh escapes his lips. "Yeah, I'd like that."

He surges forward again, catching Kieren's lips with his own. Kieren laughs giddily against his mouth as he wraps one arm around his neck, the other trapped between their bodies along with the worn old record sleeve. It's awkward, sloppy and over-eager, they're both at exactly the wrong angle and both too out of breath from laughing to do anything about it.

But despite the pinch of his arm between their chests, and the clumsy way they occasionally bump foreheads, Kieren's spirits soar.

He's going home, and Simon's coming with him.

* * *

Simon wakes up the next morning, hair mussed and body warm. Cosy, even. Cosier than usual.

He looks down to his side, a familiar head of copper-blonde hair shines in the rising sunlight.

"Finally decided to stay the night, huh?" he mumbles, smiling drowsily as he rolls over to drape his arm across the soft rise and fall of Kieren's chest. He closes his eyes, inhaling the smell of his shampoo in Kieren's hair, the gentle musk of his old clothes mingling with the younger man's scent in the air.

It's nearly eleven o'clock, the harsh winter daylight is already streaming through the drapes.

But with Kieren's warm breath on his neck, his soft hair tickling his cheek, the world once again fades away as Simon slides back into unconsciousness.

* * *

The sun has risen, a new day officially open for business, and boy does Amy have a lot to do.

She has a big day ahead- first thing's first, she has to head over to the Walker house. Her day-trip won't be half as fun unless she can convince Jem to tag along.

The youngest Walker still has a long way to go before she can really feel better. Even if her brother comes home tomorrow, it isn't going to be easy. That poor boy's got a lot of grovelling ahead. But that phone call had lifted a weight from Jem's shoulders, and she's smiled more in the last couple of days than the past three weeks combined.

She has a tough road ahead, but there's no way in Hell Amy's going to let her walk it alone.

There's not much they can do in the space of a day, even without being poor and cancer-riddled, but that doesn't mean they can't have a laugh, maybe a change of scene- maybe they could go for a quick jaunt to the next town over? It'll be good for them both, break away from the oppressive Roarton atmosphere for a bit.

Brush teeth, wash face. Hair. Make-up ( _lots_ of make-up, no room in her busy day for sallow cancer-cheeks). Ineffective medication. Breakfast. Coffee. Keys.

"God, yer such a worrywart!" she chortles, twirling the keys in her hand. "I'll be fine, I can look after meself!"

"I know, I know," Dorothy calls from the living room with a smile. "Have fun- just take care!"

"Will do!" Amy beams, tugging the door open and taking a deep breath of the chilly winter air. Already a week into December, and she was feeling optimistic. Maybe she still has one more Christmas in her yet.

When she reaches the bottom of the steps, she shrugs off the dizziness. It's the movement, the change in altitude. It'll pass.

She shrugs it off as she walks down the pathway. Bit of morning sickness, is all. It'll pass.

She tries and fails to shrug it off as she reaches the edge of the garden, her hand slowly lifting to cradle her head as it starts to spin.

"Nan?" she calls. It comes out as an inaudible rasp. " _Nan?_ " she calls again, louder, more urgent as spots appear in her vision, pitch black against the fine dusting of snow on the pavement.

She barely hears the reply over the noise in her head. High-pitched, whining- where's the air gone? Is she breathing?

Dull pain as her knees hit the icy tarmac. More noise.

Hands on her shoulder, her face, desperately trying to get through to her. Noise. Not just in her head, but outside as a voice calls for help, sobs on the phone.

Noise. Cold. Pain. Dark.

Nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, in my defense, this is chapter thirteen, we were gonna be in for some bad luck.
> 
> As for next chapter... I apologise in advance.
> 
> ...Until next time! X


	14. Thank You, and Goodnight...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys.
> 
> Y'all were very quiet last week- you mad at me for how I ended it?
> 
> ...Yikes. Guess I'm not getting any comments this week, either. Because if you thought the last chapter was tragic then... fuck.
> 
> I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
> 
> (Don't be a sobbing mess like I was when writing this- I listened to 'Comme une rosee de larmes' from the soundtrack of 'The Artist' on a loop while I wrote and I'm seriously regretting it, don't do it.)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3

" _Amy! Amy, its, all right, sweetheart, you'll be all right- just stay awake!"_

The familiar voice feels like it's miles away, echoing hollowly in her ears amidst a thousand other sounds. Sirens, voices, equipment. Pile it on top of the shrill ringing in her ears and it all may as well be one massive hunk of white noise.

But she knows the voice, and knows what it says is right. She has to stay awake, it's her best chance. It's just so hard not to succumb to unconsciousness when she feels like her frail body is collapsing beneath her, every breath a struggle.

Without her nan's hand clasped in her own, the gentle whisper in her head that tells her it's not time to go yet, she could just sink below the surface and never rise again.

* * *

"Come back soon, all right? You're always welcome, y'know!"

"Don't worry, Mum, I'll bring 'im back," Simon chuckles, wrapping her in one last goodbye hug.

"Thanks for everything, Mrs…" Kieren trails off, brow furrowing as he turns to Simon. "What  _is_ your last name?"

Simon's eyes widen, like he's only just realised that he never volunteered that rather important bit of information. "Monroe."

"As in Marilyn?" Kieren smirks.

"Shut up," Simon grumbles.

Lana smiles at them both, her eyes watering. Iain stands at her side, his expression unreadable. He holds out his hand to Simon, and after a moment's hesitation his son shakes it.

"Well," Simon mumbles, hoisting his backpack over his shoulder. "Better get off- don't wanna keep your family waiting, eh?"

Kieren nods, fiddling nervously with the bandage on his wrist that he could have removed weeks ago. "Yeah, guess so."

He smiles at Simon, taking his hand and turning with him to the door, taking their first step away from the Monroe family home.

He's so nervous he doesn't even think about the cleaned and repaired hoodie lying on the guest bed upstairs, long forgotten. But with the familiar scent of cigarette smoke wafting from the heavy jacket on his shoulders, there's really no need to remember.

* * *

"But she made it through the night- that's a good sign, isn't it?"

The doctor frowns, jaw set in professional detachment. Dorothy's heart drops to her stomach.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

"Ready for this?"

Kieren nods, clasping Simon's hand tightly as the Irish man attempts to hail a taxi. "Yeah. Yeah, I think so…"

"Sure yeh don't need a little more time? I mean, it's only been a couple of days…"

"No," Kieren says with a shake of his head. "No, I need to do this now. If I stay away any longer I'll keep putting it off, I'll never get back."

Simon nods understandingly, lowering his hand as a taxi pulls up in front of them. Kieren stops him before he can get in.

"You sure you wanna come?" Kieren asks quietly. "I mean, I'd understand if yeh-"

"Kieren," Simon says softly, squeezing his hand. "I'm coming. End of."

Kieren smiles and nods, but this time it's Simon who pulls him back from the car.

"What's  _your_ last name?" he asks.

His smile is slow but confident, his heart warm as the words he'd tried to escape fell from his lips.

"Walker," he says. "I'm Kieren Walker."

It feels like a weight lifting from his chest. It feels like everything once again clicking into place. For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, he can honestly say he feels like himself once again. A better version of himself- a version of himself who's walked through fire and come out stronger.

The moment is undermined by Simon bursting into sniggers.

"Seriously?" he laughs, to Kieren's befuddlement. "The first time I met yeh you'd been wondering the city for two days without breaks, walking till yer feet were sore, and your name is actually  _Walker?_ "

For a second, Kieren is annoyed at Simon for ruining his big emotional awakening.

But a burst of surprised laughter escapes his lips before he can stop it. "Guess I never thought of that."

Simon shakes his head, still chuckling as he holds the cab door open for Kieren to slide in. "Kieren Walker," he murmurs, as if trying out the taste of it on his tongue. "I like it."

* * *

"Amy?"

Her heart beats, that much is certain. But it's weak, slow, sluggish. Clearly it isn't putting in the effort anymore. Slacking off, the little bastard.

She's only heard certain words- words like 'stabilised' and 'time' and 'soon'. Her own brain had filled in the blanks.

The owner of the voice approaches slowly, carefully. She hears the creak of a chair as it sits down beside her. Feels a familiar hand gently take her own. She turns her head slightly, blinking against the bright light, and smiles weakly.

"Heya, Handsome…"

* * *

"Thank you."

Kieren turns to him with a smile, and Simon feels his callous old heart threaten to burst from his chest as the younger man's arms tighten around the bag in his lap. The bag containing the careworn vinyl record, carefully padded between all the old clothes he'd collected from Simon's room. All little pieces of Simon himself, clutched close to Kieren's heart beneath the heavy leather jacket.

"For what?" Kieren asks over the tinny noise of the radio, cars racing by in a blur behind his head.

Simon leans in, kisses his beautiful, infuriating, artistic, sarcastic man on the lips. He pulls back just enough to breathe, pressing their foreheads together as one hand grazes gently against Kieren's jaw, sliding into his soft hair and holding him there.

"For everything," he whispers. "You've saved my life in more ways than I can count, Kieren Walker."

Kieren smiles, winding an arm round Simon's shoulders to hold him close.

"You were worth saving, Simon Monroe…"

* * *

"Please, Amy…"

"Don't go cryin' over me, Tiger," Amy rasps, her feeble grip on his hand tightening.

He shakes his head, tears spilling down his cheeks. "Please don't go…"

Despite her best efforts, a warm tear trickles from her eye. "'Fraid I don't 'ave much choice in the matter…"

He sobs quietly, gripping her hand like a lifeline.

"Hey," she says quietly, waiting for him to look at her face. "Look after Jem for me, yeah?" she asks softly.

She doesn't know why she does it. Jem'll have her brother back soon, and Phil barely knows her. But she feels like she owes it to Jem not to leave her stranded, alone again with not a soul to talk to.

She owes it to Philip to give him something to fight for.

"Take care of me BBF for me, yeah?" she whispers.

He nods wordlessly, the tears still flowing as he raises her hand to his lips.

* * *

He doesn't know how quickly he catches the movement- quicker than Kieren and the driver, surely.

But even as he flies forward, shielding Kieren with his own body as the other car collides, he already knows that he wasn't quick enough.

* * *

"Doctor!"

He cries out, tears still pouring down his face as Amy's eyes flutter closed, her pulse weakening.

When help arrives, when the doctors and nurses flood to the bedside and do everything they can to just buy her a few more measly hours, Philip can do nothing but back up to the door and stay out of their way.

His hand drops limply to his side, and the last lingering trace of warmth from her skin slips away.

* * *

When the deafening crash of metal on metal fills his ears, he feels his heart lurch.

He feels that lurch lead to a silence.

But he doesn't think about his heart, or the pain, or the stifling heat and pain in his lungs as he gasps for breath.

Because for some reason, when the deafening  _bang_  of the colliding vehicles echoes in his head, all Kieren Walker can see are fireworks.

* * *

It's going dark.

Everything dims, the off-white walls fading to grey, slowly sliding to black.

She sees movement. She hears voices, feels hands on her body, compressing her chest, holding oxygen masks to her face.

She wonders how well they'll do. Who knows, maybe her heart'll beat a few more hours yet.

It's just a shame she won't be awake to appreciate the effort.

Her eyelids are so heavy. She wants to stay awake.

She wants to stay…

_It's not fair…_

* * *

Pain. Too much of it to keep track of, in every part of his body. Searing pain in his back, in his chest, coughing and spluttering for breath though he knows he won't find it. If his lungs are still intact, then they're being crushed by his ribs.

He wasn't fast enough.

He can't see anything, all he can make out are black spots dancing across his vision, spreading like a cancer. Soon there'll be nothing left.

He feels something else. Something that isn't pain.

It's a hand, gripping his arm. Soft hair, tickling his cheek.

As Simon Monroe slips away, he carries the words that are whispered into his ear with him.

"I love you…"

* * *

A few hours. It was all they could give her, in the end.

But now the pulse is gone. Now the machines remain silent, and Amy Dyer's eyes remain closed.

The doctor sighs, pulling off his gloves and handing them to the nurse at his side.

"Time of death," he pronounces grimly, checking his watch. "Nine forty-two."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE'S SIX CHAPTERS LEFT, DON'T LYNCH ME! *dodges rotten fruit*
> 
> I'm sorry, I'm really really sorry- I honestly thought about going in a different direction with this for a while but this is how I planned to do it since the beginning and I couldn't find it in me to change it.
> 
> Still, everyone dead, six chapter's left... guess y'all probably know what's coming, huh?
> 
> Until next time! X


	15. A Fresh Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I don't have a good excuse for leaving you with such a terrible chapter. I'm sorry- I'm mean and I like to exploit my power as a writer with followers to make people suffer.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to all the 'side characters'- all the people who are left to paper over the cracks when the people they love fall off the edge. Because no one can ever slip out of the world without leaving a ripple effect, there's always someone who has to pick up the pieces in their wake. And if you can't talk about grief, guilt, anger and the inevitable slog of life going on in an In The Flesh fic, then when can you?
> 
> Thank you, everyone x
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3

In a village as small and uneventful as Roarton, Philip never thought he'd be attending two funerals in the same week. He'd never been so sad to be wrong.

The first took place three days ago, and he'd stood by with tears in his eyes as Amy Dyer was lowered into her final resting place. The earth around her looked so dark, so painfully drab. She would've hated it.

And now here he is again, just a few metres from that freshly turned earth over her coffin, and Kieren Walker was joining her.

He hadn't known Kieren that well, when all was said and done. They'd been friends in school, but not the closest, in many ways a friendship of convenience- they'd had no one else to talk to, so they'd simply stuck by each other. Most of the time Philip had just followed Kieren, who in turn had followed Rick. Sadly, this meant Philip spent most of his time testing out whatever questionable modes of transport they constructed together from battered sleds and stolen trolleys from the Save n' Shop. He'd had his fair share of skinned knees and scraped elbows over the course of their friendship, but in many ways it had been better than sitting around at home with just his mum for company.

But besides mourning the loss of an old friend, he has one other reason for attending the ceremony.

Jem Walker stands beside him, eyes bloodshot and clamped lips trembling.

To lose a best friend is one thing. But to also lose a brother, the same week- nay, the same  _day_? Well Philip can't even begin to imagine the hell in young Jem's head right now. A hell that bleeds through when she speaks with venom on her tongue, lashes out with words like punches. Frankly, he wants to back away as far as possible.

But he made a promise.

Time passes in the same agonising crawl that everyone comes to associate with Roarton Valley, days to weeks and weeks to months, but Philip always makes time for Jem.

It's not easy, keeping his promise- not when the girl he's supposed to look after thinks he's weird and hates everyone.

But he thinks she knows what Amy meant to him, maybe even knows what she asked him to do.

For that reason, Jem doesn't attack Philip the way she does everyone else. Sometimes she'll even say hello, even if it's with an unsmiling face and a dead voice.

They're not close, by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, their friendship becomes almost identical to the one he'd had with her brother- convenient, comforting, aloof. It's probably not what Amy had wanted, but most likely what she'd expected.

So he tries to be there in whatever small way he can, although if Jem needs help she doesn't bring it up. The youngest Walker is growing more self-reliant by the day.

Meanwhile, Philip is struggling to live up to his own goals. But still he tries, attempting to get back to his life the way it was before a beautiful woman blew into his life like a vivacious hurricane and made his old town and his old life seem so dreary by comparison.

The political ladder is a tricky climb, even in such a small pond as Roarton, but he does what he can. One day he's going to be up there, an important man in a position of power, running this town, maybe even breaking the mould of local politics and actually making some positive changes.

One day, he's going to make Amy proud.

* * *

Dorothy Dyer doesn't have long left, but then she's known that much for quite some time.

She never told Amy about her weak heart. She hadn't found out until some months after the girl was first diagnosed with leukaemia, and there's nothing like a suffering grandchild to takes one's mind off one's own health problems.

Now Amy is gone, and there's not much holding her frail old body together anymore.

March 2010 has already come and gone, over three months since that terrible day in the hospital. Dorothy doesn't honestly believe that time heals all wounds, never did, but something tells her she'll need a lot more time than she's likely to get.

But she can't be ungrateful. It's still more time than Amy got, and still nowhere near as long as her girl deserved.

From the day she was born, that girl had been special. Even as a baby, she'd had hands that never stayed still and a smile to make the sun shine.

Dorothy wasn't her mother, but that's what it had felt like. She'd been there through it all, the highs and lows, the last thing she ever wanted for Amy was to grow up feeling isolated. A spirit like hers needed to be nourished, supported, or she'd grow up like every other child in the world- trodden into the dirt by everyone else's expectations. In a way, Dorothy had got what she'd always wanted. Amy may have been many things, but lonely was never one of them.

But apparently, even when you do everything right, something will always come along to destroy what you've created. In Amy's case, it had been headaches, nausea, and a diagnosis that would be the new focal point of her short life.

Dorothy sits down, her arthritic knees complaining. She sinks back into the armchair, eyes sweeping the room as her parasol clatters to the floor.

She's lived in this house for as long as she can remember. This is where her parents had lived, and their parents before them. This is the Dyer house, and she'd hoped it would stay that way a little longer.

She thinks of her will, drawn up several years ago after her first diagnosis. Thinks of the section with the house, the money, and the space where it used to state Paul Dyer as the recipient.

Now the space reads Amy Dyer.

She should change it, put her son back in the will now that her granddaughter cannot accept the offer, but she doesn't care enough anymore.

As far as she's concerned, once she's gone, this old place can gather dust.

* * *

Iain Monroe isn't okay, and nothing he says can convince Lana otherwise.

You really get to know a person after thirty years of marriage. Iain isn't the enigmatic man of mystery he was when they'd met, nor was he the dashing charmer who'd swept her off her feet.

But he is a human being, the one she loves. And she can tell when he's in pain.

Simon's death was always going to be a cause of grief for them- despite his faults, he had been their son. But somehow the knowledge of how close he'd been to making it through, how much he'd turned his life around, makes its abrupt end cut so much deeper. She can see it in Iain's eyes- that haunted look that comes when you watch something close to your heart fade to a memory before your very eyes.

There's a ghost haunting this old house, now. Actually, more like two.

Her heart bleeds for Kieren. In some cruel twist of fate, both her son and the only boy he'd ever loved had met their end in the same crash of metal.

She looks down to her lap, to the hoodie lying across it. The blood is long gone from the sleeve, the tears repaired and the fabric washed and softened. It must have completely slipped his mind to take it.

She wishes she'd known his last name, or known where he was from. He has a family somewhere, parents and a sister that he'd been on his way home to. She wants to talk to them, offer her condolences, thank them on Simon's behalf for everything Kieren did. But the boy had left no clues, and the police hadn't been forthcoming with the information- with all the times they'd had to haul Simon back in the middle of the night, drunk, disorderly and off his head, their family weren't exactly in their good graces anymore.

She often finds herself wondering if the boy had even existed. His appearance had been so sudden, so perfect, swooping in just when her son had needed him most. Maybe she had been right, maybe he was a guardian angel. But she can't believe that, not when both of their bodies are in the ground.

It's hard to find things to be grateful for in times like these. Sometimes it would be so easy to get up and leave- just walk out into the unknown with her life in a bag and her Bible forgotten beneath her bed.

But if there's one thing, just one thing that she can be honestly thankful for, it's that Simon didn't die alone like she'd always feared.

Iain may not draw much solace from that- he'd kept quiet about it, but his son's…  _preferences_ had always been a sore spot for him- but she finds it the greatest source of comfort she could hope for. She hates that her son is gone, and she hates that Kieren is, too.

But for the first time in years, neither of them had been lonely.

Maybe this time, with that comforting thought in mind and Simon gone for good, the time has come for them to move on. No more waiting by the phone.

They're selling the house. Too many ghosts stalk these halls.

They'd been talking about it for years, but never taken the leap- how could she, when her son could come looking for them at any moment?

Now he's gone, and though her heart weeps for her child and his saviour, she can't keep living in the past. Honestly, if she stays still long enough she thinks it'll kill her.

So they pack, and they plan, and three months later they are gone, renting a small flat in the city while the house remains on the market.

A fresh start.

* * *

Sometimes Sue feels like she's riding a rowboat in a storm, desperately trying to patch up the holes even as more burst open. That's what it feels like, trying to keep what remains of the Walker family afloat.

Steve, bless his heart, isn't much help. If she thought he'd retreated into himself when Kieren was just  _missing_ , it was nothing compared to now. Now his son's dead, and he's struggling to hold on. Every morning he shuffles to work with dragging feet and a blank face, and every night he comes home and drops to the sofa, barely stopping to eat before he spends his night with his numb gaze focused on the glow of the TV screen. He won't talk about it. Talking was never his forte.

Jem is another matter entirely. Not only is her fiery temper exploding on a regular basis, now she doesn't even have Amy to vent to. God, she misses Amy. That girl had just brightened everyone's day, the living incarnation of sunshine. She was exactly the kind of person they all needed in their lives right now.

Sue scrubs the plates in the sink forcefully, her teeth gritted against the surge of emotions bubbling beneath the surface. She hasn't got time for them- she has to deal with Jem and Steve, first. Has to take care of them.

But it's so hard, harder than anything, to admit that her Kieren's never coming back.

For a while after he'd left, she'd felt betrayed. Sad and sympathetic, but betrayed. He'd had some hard times over the years, and Rick's death wasn't easy on him, but that he would just up and leave without a word…

But it had been okay, because he wasn't gone for good. Or at least, there was a chance he wasn't. There was no body, nothing to suggest that he was dead, so he was alive somewhere. One day he'd come back, she'd have a chance to find out what had made him leave, have a chance to make it right. But now there's no room to wonder, no counting the days until he returns because this time he's gone for good.

Now she'll never know what sent him away, or what she could have done to stop it.

She tries to tell herself that at least she doesn't have to keep waiting now. In a horrible, heart-breaking way, she's free. They all are.

But no amount of freedom can make up for the fact that her son's gone.

She remembers a few days before the accident, when she'd come home to find Jem in tears on the sofa. She remembers collapsing right next to her, crying relieved tears onto her shoulder as Jem told her about the phone call. Kieren was alive, and he was coming home soon.

Three days later, they'd received another call, this time from the Manchester City Police. That call had brought on entirely different tears.

That was the day after Amy had been rushed off to the hospital in the neighbouring town, unconscious and fading fast. It was the day Dorothy Dyer called and told her that Amy had passed away in her sleep.

That day, the ninth of December 2009, had been the day that Jem had locked herself in her room. She'd stayed there for almost a week, and Sue heard her sobs through the wall every night. She wished there was something, anything she could say to make it better. But what can you possibly say to make the death of a brother and a best friend all right?

So, through Jem's rages and Steve's retreats, Sue tries to hold their crumbling family together in Kieren's wake.

She's angry.

It's horrible to admit, like she's disrespecting her son's memory. It hadn't been his fault, not really. He may have left home, but he didn't ask to die. It wasn't his fault. He would never hurt his family deliberately- beneath the punk clothes and the sarcasm he'd been a gentle boy, with an artist's soul.

But now he's gone, and Sue has to pick up the pieces.

Despite her anger, her bitterness, the feeling she gets every morning when she thinks it'd be easier to just stay in bed, she says a prayer for Kieren every night even as her belief ebbs away.

She prays that he's better off now, wherever he is.

She prays that before he died, he'd found some happiness, wherever he was.

She prays that he wasn't alone at the end.

There had been another passenger in the cab, an older man with massive injuries found at Kieren's side. She'd been told his name, but found no Simon Monroe in the phonebook and too many other Monroes in the Manchester area to narrow it down. She'd been told that he'd staggered on a few hours longer before his heart finally gave out on the operating table. She'd been told that his battered body was found draped over Kieren's, having absorbed the worst impact. And though it didn't work, she says a prayer for him, too.

Maybe he'd been a stranger or vague acquaintance, just splitting a cab. Maybe he'd been something more, and he'd deliberately used his own body as a shield. But she hopes that he was a good friend, prays that he'd been talking to Kieren at the end.

Kieren had always been such a lonely boy. But living alone is one thing, dying alone…

A tear trickles down her cheek, dropping to the surface of the plate, warm water sliding in with cold.

She couldn't bear it if he died alone.

* * *

It's the kind of event that should have happened on the stroke of midnight at the turn of the year, or on some kind of important date laden with magic and mystery.

But it's the eleventh of April 2010, a drizzly night in Roarton Valley, when the dead begin to rise from their graves.

When the first earth shifts, a slender hand erupts from the ground. The hand grips the turf, claws, drags itself through the soil. A body emerges, its chaotic tangles of hair topped with a dirt-stained red flower. The 'it' is in fact a she, and as she drags herself from her tomb beautiful skirts in ragged tatters trip her clumsy feet.

Her body free, her eyes wide open, she turns her face to the sky and stares uncomprehendingly at the moon as it shines. She stands still as the wind howls, and dimly thinks that she should feel it.

But she has no time to think of the wind or rain, or how it should feel on her skin. There's something else fighting for attention; a lust, a craving.

A hunger.

She staggers forth on numb feet, soles scraping the dirt. Around her, other figures have started to appear, hands clawing desperately at the open air. She stumbles on, one thing on her mind.

But along the way, something distracts her.

A face she knows.

* * *

As he breaks free from the stifling cocoon of earth and timber, he inhales a deep breath of frigid air before realising he doesn't need it.

His name eludes him. So does everything else, come to think of it. There's nothing in him now besides a craving, residing deep in his bones and demanding he move.

He claws and scrapes, but he can't quite drag himself the last of the way. Other bodies move around him, shuffling and shambling through the rain, but he remains stuck, halfway between freedom and the tomb, between this life and the last.

Something grips his arm, yanks him forcefully from his pit. As the nails dig into his skin he sees the face, the pretty hair offset by warped features and blank eyes. Strangely, he isn't even remotely concerned.

The person releases his bicep, holds his wrist, and shuffles on. He stumbles along behind, happy to follow.

Rain surrounds them, dashed aside by wind. The sight triggers something else, lurking in his mind below the red haze of hunger. A picture, or a memory.

A face, pale and gaunt, drenched with rain, and a hand reaching for his own.

* * *

Several hours later, in a cemetery not so very far away, a new plot of earth churns.

The hand that shoots out grabs at the ground, ragged fingernails gouging furrows in the mud.

The body slowly emerges, pristine suit stained with filth. The neat cut of his hair lies in disarray, gel cracked and slick strands dangling across his milk-white face.

Something stirs in the back of his mind, memories desperately trying to clamour to the surface, but never making it that far. He is running on a far more basic instinct, now.

A new moon lights his progress across the stirring ground, casting his twisted face in an ethereal glow. Bile drips from his lips, his vision narrows. He's hungry.

So hungry…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you it wasn't over yet!
> 
> Well, here we are again- seems like whatever path we take, whatever option we choose we always end up here. I guess some things just aren't meant to be changed. Stay tuned for some of the events you know, but not as you remember them!
> 
> Now, it is with a heavy heart that I announce there will not be an update next Monday- I'm falling a bit behind on my writing (real life gets in the way sometimes) and I don't wanna rush the last chapters and undo all the good work I've done so far with hasty conclusions. But with a bit of luck I'll be back to normal after a two week hiatus, and with luck and regular updates the last five chapters will be posted every consecutive Monday as per usual, concluding just before Christmas.
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with me this long- y'all are wonderful!
> 
> Until next time! X


	16. Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, baby!
> 
> Sorry 'bout that little hiccup there- with a bit of luck we're back to the regular stuff now! Oooh, five more chapters- anyone else excited? :D
> 
> Gonna take a little time to go character by character now- this week, the spotlight falls on the beautiful genius herself, the delightful Miss Dyer! And those of you who are just dying to know how the boys are doing- all in good time, folks!
> 
> So, here it is, chapter 16- hope it was worth the wait! Happy reading! :D
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3

_Name: Amy Dyer_

_Sex: Female_

_Date of Birth: 03/04/1988_

_Age: 21_

_Time/Date of Death: 09/12/2009, 21:42 p.m._

_Cause of Death: Leukaemia- patient was admitted to intensive care on 08/12/2009 at 11:34 a.m. with dizziness and shortness of breath. Though she regained consciousness during the night, in the afternoon of the 9_ _th_ _she fell unconscious once again and remained so in the hours prior to death._

* * *

It's February 2013, and the sky is grey as Amy takes her first clear-minded step on Roarton soil in three years.

She strides quickly from the train station, fists clenched at her sides and the make-up heavy on her face. The many layers can't even begin to cover the feeling of a bulls-eye on her head.

As she reaches the bungalow she practically sprints for the door, fumbling with her keys as she feels the curious stares of a passing couple on her back. When the stiff old lock finally yields she falls gracelessly into the house, slamming the door behind her.

She leans back against the wood with a sigh of relief, a contented smile crossing her face- blissfully unaware that it wasn't to last.

She looks around at the place, practically untouched since she left it- dust on every surface, cobwebs on the ceiling.

"Honestly, Nan," she calls with a chuckle, kicking off her boots and making for her room. "Wouldn't kill yeh to…"

Her voice cracks, her steps falter. Everything floods back- visitation day when no one had showed up, the letter, the lawyer, the will…

"Pick up a duster once in a while," she finishes in a whisper, dry eyes prickling with the need for tears that will never come.

Without another word, she shuffles along the empty hall to her room, eyes to the floor. She can't look up at the shell of her old home. She just walks, seeing the carpet as it brushes her feet and silently mourning the feeling that used to accompany it.

* * *

All she knows of Dorothy Dyer's death is the date. July 17th 2010, not long after 'The Rising', as people are calling it. The lawyer who came to read out her will didn't offer a cause of death, and she didn't ask for one. She'd been afraid of what she might hear.

So she'd numbly accepted the key being offered to her, shambled around the treatment centre until she was deemed safe for release, and set free into the world with the key in her pocket, her medication in a bag, and a one-way train ticket clutched in her trembling hand. She hadn't wanted to go back to the empty house, but with no job prospects and a father out of the country and apparently oblivious to her continued existence she'd had nowhere else to go.

It's been a few weeks since she arrived home, and so far she hasn't left the bungalow. The only person who knows she's back is Shirley Wilson, who'd landed herself a new gig as a PDS support volunteer. She'd begged her not to tell Philip, not yet. She's not ready for anyone to see her just now. It was with grudging acceptance that Shirley agreed not to tell a soul, not even her son. Not even Jem.

Poor Jem…

It's been difficult catching up on world events since her untimely demise, but since she got home and found herself with a computer once again at her disposal she's been doing what she can to keep up to speed. For local news, she relies on Shirley as her sole connection to Roarton.

Apparently the day after she was rushed to hospital, Jem's brother was finally found. Unfortunately, he was found dead in a twisted hunk of wreckage on a busy city road.

As Shirley told her about how the Walkers had been surviving over the last few years- Jem and her new gang of trigger-happy thugs, Steve's slow retreat into himself and Sue's desperate attempts to tape over the cracks, Amy felt guilt tugging at her insides. Maybe there was nothing she could have done about her own illness, or maybe she could have done everything differently and taken better care of herself and she would have lasted a bit longer. But despite how little she could have ultimately done to avoid it, she feels remorse at the horrendous timing of it all- to think that poor Jem lost her friend and her brother on the same day…

She owes that girl every apology known to man. And one day, when she musters up the courage to get out of this damn house, she'll go grovelling on her hands and knees.

Right now, though, she's a little preoccupied with the nightmares.

They come to her every night without fail- dreams of the things she did when she was… not herself. The people she ripped apart, their screams, her fingers digging into soft flesh and coming up bloody.

She always wakes up in the middle of the night, feeling like she should be drenched in sweat before realising her glands don't produce it anymore. Once she's awake, there's no way she can get back to sleep again. She's lucky if she gets four hours these days.

After a few weeks, as she finally undergoes the long put-off task of sorting through her white bin bag of burial clothes, she finds the slip of paper. She vaguely remembers a member of group counselling slipping it into her hand. On it is a website and a password.

With nothing better to do with her time, she pays it a visit.

* * *

The first time she falls asleep at night and sleeps right through 'til sunrise, she decides she's ready.

She applies her flimsy layers of cover-up, cranes her neck to inject her own medication, and with barely a moment's hesitation she strides out into the streets.

Maybe it's the videos, or the sunny (well, sunny by Roarton standards) weather, or maybe it's just a simple matter of time healing wounds, but she feels better now. Not completely absolved of sins, not totally guilt-free, but immeasurably better nonetheless. Maybe it's not a good idea to become so dependent on a masked man preaching over YouTube, but with every sermon she watches she feels her spirits lift and her confidence build. Thank God for the Undead Prophet.

It wasn't her fault or her choice. She knows that now, even if some mornings she still has trouble struggling past it. She had simply been dealt an unfair hand and been forced to play it.

But now it's different. Now she's awake and she's free- freer than anyone before her. Now she's unbound by the rules of time and science, her only limit being the gravity that keeps her earthbound. Everything else is flexible now, no such thing as deadlines (heh,  _dead_ lines, funny). She cannot starve or fade, the cancer that corrupted her body for so many years holds no sway over her now. She's free, and she's been given a second chance at life.

There's no fucking way she's wasting it this time.

She walks through the desolate town, ignoring the glares and fearful glances cast her way. There is only one person she needs to see right now.

When she reaches the cemetery she has to crawl under yellow caution tape, the entire site hemmed off like a crime scene. She spares a glance for her own tombstone, nodding in approval as she sees her favourite verse etched in the surface, but she doesn't give it much time. She has a more important grave to visit.

Eventually, she finds the woman in question.

"Heya, Nan," she murmurs, phantom tears prickling in her eyes. "Miss me?"

* * *

She doesn't know how long she talks to her grandmother's unresponsive gravestone for. She talks about everything, whatever pops into her head, letting it all off her chest just like she used to.

She's so immersed in her one-sided conversation that she doesn't realise she has company until the snap of a twig alerts her.

As she picks her way across upturned earth, a face comes into view. Shy, soft round the edges, bearing the unmistakeable orange tint of way too much cover-up. She knows it from somewhere. Well, from two places actually. The first comes to her in a fog of memory, of a dark shop with blood on the floor and a savage face devouring it with her. The second is an older recollection, barely a glimpse- a photo on a mantelpiece of a skinny boy with an outfit at odds with his attitude.

A slow grin spreads across her face.

"I know you!"

* * *

Apparently Kieren Walker was easily spooked. At least her body didn't really deal with pain anymore- otherwise that pole impaling her stomach would have put a real damper on her good mood.

It's funny how life works sometimes. Not half an hour ago the skinny blonde Bambi was stabbing her with a fencepost, now the two of them are standing together at a bus stop en route to the local funfair. She doesn't have the heart to be angry with him for the little skewering incident- the kid was having a tough time, after all. She can relate.

But sitting around feeling sorry for himself isn't going to help him past it.

Amy grins at his back as he mounts the bus ahead of her. She barely knows the bloke, but she feels a strange sense of satisfaction in helping him out. Some kind of karma, like making amends for leaving his sister so abruptly. Of course, the real way to do that would be to talk to Jem herself, but… well, she doesn't want a bullet in her skull. One day she'll muster up the courage to speak to her ex-BFF face to face.

In the meantime, it looks like she's found herself a new project in this six-foot stick of self-deprecation.

* * *

Amy has no idea what happened- one moment Kieren was there, smiling from the side lines while she spun in rapid circles on a ride he'd been too chicken to go on, the next she'd stumbled dizzily off to an unfamiliar crowd and not a Walker to be seen.

As the day wears on she weighs up the pros and cons of just going to his house to check up on him. She's been meaning to pop round there anyway, to say hi to Mrs Walker (and maybe gauge Jem's reaction to her presence), but she has no idea what to say. Should she bring a bottle of champagne to soften the blow? Basket of fruit, maybe?

When the sun goes down and she still hasn't heard from him, she squares her shoulders and strides out into town, not bothering to re-apply her cover-up before she goes. It's a hassle, and it's not that she really cares anymore. Everyone knows who she is and therefore  _what_  she is, what's the point in face paint?

She raps sharply on the door of the Walker house, wondering who will answer first. Exactly how dead is she? Only time will tell!

She breathes a sigh of relief when Sue Walker's face appears through the glass, although that relief turns to guilt as the woman visibly blanches. Still she opens the door, wide doe eyes staring in disbelief at her- and she can see where Kieren gets those things from, now.

"Hello, Sue," she says quietly with a shy smile.

"Amy?" Sue asks softly, tentatively, like she's not entirely sure she isn't hallucinating.

"Yep," Amy says with a nervous grin. "Can't get rid o' me that easily!"

Sue stares at her face, and for a split second Amy feels bad about not covering herself up. Still, this can't be the first time Sue's come face to face with a natural PDS face… can it? Nah, that's silly, she must have seen Kieren sometime.

Speaking of which…

"Don't s'pose yer lovely son's home, is he?" she asks brightly, because the quiet stand-off is getting uncomfortable. "Lost track of 'im earlier, wanted to make sure he got home okay."

Sue nods mutely, and disappears back into the house. Amy lets out a long breath, shuffling her feet. It's going to take some time. Sue's bound to be a bit funny around her for a while, right? Only natural, she'll get over it. She hopes.

"Amy?"

She grins as Kieren's shocked (and still orange-caked) face pops into view. "Miss me?"

"Amy, what're you doing?" he asks, ushering her in before her white face can cause a riot.

"Going  _au naturale_ ," she says seductively, blowing him a little kiss.

"How'd you find me?" he asks incredulously. Charming.

"Knocked on every door," she jokes. "Freaked a few grannies out!"

He gives her a horrified stare, and she chuckles. "Just messin' with yer- I've been here before, Dumb-Dumb!"

His brow furrows. "What, when?"

She's about to answer when a flash of red catches her eye. She grimaces. "Better ask her."

Kieren follows her gaze over his shoulder, and comes face to face with Jem.

The youngest Walker glares at them both, and good golly is her silent rage a sight to behold. She whips round and storms upstairs to her room, heavy boots stomping on the stairs and door slamming with enough force to echo through the house.

Kieren turns to her with a questioning look, and Amy meets it steadily.

"Looks like we've both got some explaining to do," she says.

* * *

She's not sure how long they spent sat together on Kieren's bed, swapping stories of the month preceding their untimely deaths, but she's starting to feel like she knows Kieren's life better than her own. November of 2009 for Kieren sounds like some kind of TV romance drama. Apparently while she was picking up the slack in his home town this crazy kid was off gallivanting in a city some miles away making heart-eyes at a tortured (and no doubt devastatingly handsome) Irish rogue.

Whenever he talks about the mysterious man his dead eyes light up, even through the thick contacts. He says he can't remember his full name, but knows that his first name was Simon and he loved music, poetry and complaining about Kieren's comparative lack of knowledge in both areas. Sounds like a bit of a grumpy pretentious bastard to Amy, but each to their own.

It's only as he gets to the cause of his death that his face falls, his shoulders droop. Apparently he'd asked everyone he knew about the man who'd been in the cab with him when it crashed. It wasn't until he made it home that he found out Simon hadn't survived.

"He might still be around," Amy suggests softly. "I mean, we are."

"Maybe," Kieren shrugs, unconvinced. "But I didn't see him once at the treatment centre, and he jumped in front of me when the car crashed. Maybe he was too injured to…"

He chews his lip, hugging his knees. Amy wants to say something, but how do you respond to that?

That's when she gets an idea.

She stands, unfastening her belt and undoing the buttons on her blouse. Kieren splutters, and if he had blood he'd be blushing furiously, but she doesn't stop until her stomach is exposed.

Kieren's stuttering grinds to a halt as he sees the dark purple scabs and bruises decorating her body- a few little souvenirs from her cancer and treatment. "Not pretty, eh?" she chuckles, re-doing her buttons. "And my insides probably look about two hundred times worse."

She sits down beside him again, taking his hands and noting the faded scar on his wrist. "My whole body shut down, Kieren Walker," she says quietly. "My insides are probably soup, yet here I stand! Don't give up hope just yet- I'll bet your Prince Charming is still hobbling round somewhere in the countryside, chomping on sheep!"

He laughs suddenly, breathlessly, shaking his head. Amy allows herself a triumphant grin- he may not believe her (well, she's not sure she believes it herself), but at the very least maybe he's a little bit hopeful now. That's the best she can ask for, when all's said and done.

"Was he your last thought?" she asks gently, smiling. She hopes he had a nicer last thought than she did.

"Sort of," Kieren smiles. "Yeah, I guess he was my very last one…"

He sounds hesitant. She cocks her head curiously. "Not the only one?"

He shakes his head again. "No."

She waits as his eyes once again glaze over. "It was so loud," he says, so quiet she can barely hear it. "Metal on metal, so hard and fast it was like an explosion, reminded me of…"

He frowns, and there's sadness behind that frown she can't even begin to comprehend. "Fireworks."

Amy's about to ask him what's so sad about fireworks- seems like quite a pleasant last image, to be honest- when his bedroom door slams open and they both whip round to face it.

Jem stands in the doorway, and something about her is uncertain. She remains silent a moment, as if trapped in some kind of internal debate.

"Jem?" Kieren asks, concerned. "What's-?"

She speaks, and any words he'd been about to say dry right up.

"Rick's back."

* * *

Aside from a whirlwind explanation on the way to the pub, Amy really has no idea what to think of this sudden Rick revelation. All she knows is that Kieren seems ready to jump right out of his skin in nervous excitement.

It had taken mere minutes to reach The Legion, and another two to talk the wide-eyed Kieren down from a budding panic attack and get him through the door. When they finally went in, she did not like what she saw- and apparently, neither did all the human patrons that gaped at them with barely disguised hatred and disgust.

Still, she could have handled that. Could have just bought their pointless lemonades, found Kieren's friend and got through this whole miserable evening with minimal discomfort.

That was until  _he_  appeared.

Amy met Philip's thunderstruck gaze, feeling his scrutiny on her face. He was being too quiet, wide eyes never blinking, and though it occurred to her to be nice to him (hey, it's not like she'd bothered  _warning_  him or anything) her patience with the living was wearing thin tonight.

"What're you looking at, yeh weirdo?" she barks sharply, inwardly cringing. Real nice opening line, sweetheart.

Philip blushes and fumbles, looking at his feet, and actually has the nerve to look abashed at her blatantly unprovoked attack. She wishes he wouldn't do that- now she's gone from feeling like a bit of a dick to a complete and utter twat.

It's easier to pretend to be angry with him as he receives harsh looks from Pearl and the man she assumes to be Bill Macy and stutteringly asks them to vacate to the 'PDS seating area' (AKA the coatroom). But even as she stands in the cold bluish light of the tiny closet between the warm pub and the toilets, she can't help feeling a right lemon whenever he casts a guilty glance her way. Annoying new political duties aside, he's still her Philip. She has to say something.

"Philip…" she begins.

A door opens and closes loudly behind her. Kieren tenses up at her side, wide eyes fixed over her shoulder. She turns to look, and a face she recognises from a painting in Kieren's room is there to greet her.

The two of them stare at each other in wonder, the silence between them heavy with the weight of unsaid things and unanswered questions, and if Amy was in any doubt as to the nature of their relationship before that doubt is now officially gone with the wind.

 _Okay,_ she thinks bitterly, glancing at Philip.  _These two win best romantic reunion tonight._

* * *

Or so she thought.

Truth was, her initial happiness for Kieren waned throughout the evening, starting with the very un-romantic handshake he'd received from his once-dead best friend and going downhill from there. After spending an evening in the same room as Bill Macy she immediately understands why Rick is the way he is- no way you're going to grow up with that bigoted arsewipe of a dad without being pretty messed up and repressed yourself. But that doesn't mean she has to like it. That doesn't mean she won't scowl when the boy laughs along to jokes at Kieren's expense, or fight a twinge of sadness whenever Kieren reflexively moves away from Rick to give him space. She understands, doesn't mean she approves. God, when did she get so over-protective of that little muppet?

Still, not much she can do about it now. As word of a rabid in the woods set the Legion a-bustling, Kieren had tagged along with his "charming" ex-boyfriend and his "delightful" father (this boy's terrible life choices are going to use up all her sarcastic air-quotes). She watches the cars drive away with a long-suffering sigh, clutching tighter to her coat as she steps out onto the pavement. No point hanging around where she isn't wanted.

"Be  _vewy_  quiet," she mocks quietly, in her best Elmer Fudd impression. "We're hunting _wabids!_ "

"Amy!"

Oh, yes, that's right…

She turns around, coming face to face with Philip. He stands backlit by the glow from the pub, eyes wide and hands nervously fiddling with the buttons on his jacket.

She forces her sour face into some semblance of a smile. "Hey, Tiger."

A small smile tugs the corner of his mouth at the familiar nickname, and he takes a step further out of the pub. "Why didn't you tell me you were back?"

He probably doesn't mean it to sound so accusing, but she winces all the same. "Sorry."

The silence hangs heavy between them a moment longer. Finally he clears his throat, tugging his necktie.

"You didn't, uh," he stutters. "That doesn't answer my question."

She shrugs, grimacing apologetically. "I just… didn't really want to see anyone."

_I didn't want anyone to see me._

He gulps, glancing back at the pub. "Look, about what I said in there… I'm sorry, it's just, well, you know what they're like…"

"I know," she mumbles, not forgiving but not condemning. She always knew Philip had political aspirations, she supposes she can hardly blame him for trying to keep his reputation. It hurts, but such is life.

"So," he asks softly, taking another step away from the building. "How long have you been back?"

"Couple o' months," she shrugs.

He nods wordlessly, but she can see the hurt on his face. She sighs, taking a step closer to him.

"Sorry I didn't tell yer," she mutters.

"Haven't you been…" he trails off, checking himself. She must have really snapped at him before, he's obviously worried about overstepping his bounds.

"What?" she prompts, attempting to look approachable.

"…Lonely?"

She chews her lip, before remembering that she probably shouldn't do that anymore- any skin she chips off is never growing back.

"Sometimes," she says quietly.

"You could've…" he says, stumbling on his words. "You could've called. I wouldn't have…"

_Screamed? Freaked out? Called the HVF? Got the pitchforks and torches out?_

"I know," she says again, this time with a smile. With one more step she closes the distance between them, standing slightly on her tiptoes to press her lips to Philip's. If he's shocked by the coldness of her skin, he doesn't let on. He just raises a hand cautiously, resting it on her cheek and tracing the white skin beneath her eye.

She gently breaks away, resting her head against his shoulder and taking a deep yet unnecessary breath inwards. He smells of aftershave- obviously he's grown up past his hairless baby face stage. She tugs on his hand, stepping away towards the road.

"Come on," she chirps, attempting to pull some of her usual cheer back into her tone. "You can walk me home!"

* * *

She can't do this anymore. She thought she could grin and bear it, but she just can't, not right now.

For a while last night it had been like nothing had changed. Philip had stayed the night, she'd woken up in his arms with the sun on her face, and for a little while it was just the normal relationship experience.

Then Philip had left. He'd looked so sad, so apologetic, and he'd tried to sugar-coat his words and actions as much as possible. But even if he never said it the implication was clear- no one can know.

He has a new life now, a new job- a job that's actually going places (not that she'd describe moving up the small local council as 'going places', but she hates to burst his bubble). And in a town as hostile to her kind as Roarton, that makes relationships with 'rotters' a resounding no-no. He may not be ashamed of her, but that doesn't mean the rest of the world won't be ashamed on his behalf.

It's a brave new world, but she is not a brave new human. As far as the people she used to call her kin are concerned, she's just another dragon in need of slaying. Just because the government forbids them from spearing her through the heart, that doesn't stop them clipping her wings and tightening her chains.

It doesn't stop the terrified glances and glares of disgust on the street.

It doesn't re-validate her passport or her citizenship, it doesn't get her jobs or friends.

And it definitely doesn't stop brutes like Gary Kendal from forcing their way into her home and her room, pinning her arms and forcing make-up onto her 'rotten' face.

She stares in the mirror at the face she doesn't know anymore, white cheeks smeared red like the blood of the people she'd torn to shreds, and she cries. Even crying seems incomplete now, unsatisfying, unfulfilling with no tears behind the dry sobs. Everything around her is going to Hell and she can't even cry about it. Isn't she allowed a _nything?_

It's with these last thoughts of anger and despair that she finds herself furiously scribbling down the address she finds on the website, before shoving the laptop into her bag along with her medication and only as many clothes as she needs to get by. She hasn't booked a ticket, but who gives a shit in bloody Roarton? They probably wouldn't even fine her if they caught her on the train without one, the type of staff hired on these lines aren't paid enough to care.

The door to the bungalow slams with a dull sense of finality. Maybe one day she'll be back here, when she's figured stuff out. But right now she needs out of this place, and these people. She needs to get away from Gary and Bill and even Philip. She feels bad about leaving Kieren and Jem, but she can only hope that they'll take care of each other. Frankly, she's done so much of that before  _and_  after her own death, she could do with a break.

Nope, Roarton's just going to have to struggle along without her for a bit.

* * *

"Optimist? Amy, I tried to kill meself!"

"Alright," she laughs, smacking his hand lightly. "Optimist with depressive tendencies!"

She hadn't expected anyone to find her. Here she was in the middle of the day, slathered in mousse and curled up at the train station, where absolutely no one had any reason to be. Just her luck that the Walker siblings had turned up- so much for a stealthy getaway. Sat on either side of her, they both look to her sadly at the sound of a train approaching.

"I'll be depressed if yeh leave," Kieren says sadly, giving her the puppy dog eyes. She won't be guilt-tripped that easily.

"Don't be daft, Kieren Walker!" she chirps, ruffling his hair. "You've got your sis back, and she only looks  _slightly_ homicidal-"

"Hey!"

She ruffles Jem's hair too, ignoring her glares. "And you've got your old sweetheart back- you don't need little old me around anymore!"

"I want you around, though," he says, standing with her. Jem doesn't say anything, but she nods in agreement.

"Don't look so glum, Handsome," she smiles, pulling him into a tight hug. "I'll be back!"

"I'm holding yeh to that," he says, giving her one last squeeze before releasing her.

She looks to Jem, smiling sadly. "Look after 'im, yeah?"

Jem nods, not stepping in for a hug or a handshake. Fair enough. She's still pissed off, it's understandable. Amy turns back to Kieren.

"And you," she says sternly, jerking her head towards Jem. "Look after her."

"As if she'd let me," he snorts, receiving a sharp elbow in the side from his little (big?) sister. "I'll do me best."

"Good," Amy nods, grinning as the train rolls to a stop and she picks up her bag. "Hold the fort while I'm gone, yeah? I want this town in one piece when I make my triumphant return!"

"Yes, ma'am," Kieren laughs, saluting her. His sister follows suit with a roll of her eyes.

Amy laughs, clear and bright as she leans out of the train window for one last look at her friends. She feels the wind start to tug at her hair as the train hisses and lurches forward, and waves at the shrinking figures of the Walker siblings as Kieren slings an arm around Jem's shoulders.

They'll be okay. She's sure of it now.

The world around them may be going to Hell, and Kieren's going to be on the receiving end of a never-ending barrage of bullshit, but as far as those two are concerned things will work out for the best. Maybe that's all he'll need to get through this. Who knows, maybe his Mr. Mysterious will turn up out of the blue and he can live in blissful polyamorous happiness with his two undead boyfriends. Throw in a newly restored bond of sibling trust and what more could you want?

She understands why he can't come with her, and that's why she never even asked him to. He has people to stay for, people who will miss him. Maybe she does too- the Walkers might spare her a fond thought, and Philip may be sad when he realises she's gone. But it's just not enough, not anymore.

Besides, she spent her entire first life sitting around doing nothing, all those precious years wasted assuming she'd have all the time in the world.

Now the clock truly has been smashed to pieces, and she has no intention of wasting even a second of her new life. From now on every day counts, every minute is precious, even now that she has more of them than ever before.

This time, whether the world likes it or not, Amy Dyer is here to stay.

* * *

Loud, scary and amazing. It's about what she expected to commune to be.

Apparently she'd arrived on a busier night than usual- once a month the Prophet would pick a host location and emissaries from the other communes would pay a visit. Apparently important stuff got discussed on these occasions, but as far as Amy can see it just looks like a slightly bigger than average party. And they seem to be passing around _sheep brains_ of all things- what's that in aid of?

"Not joining in?"

She looks up with a start, jerking away from the wall she's been quietly leaning against whilst eyeing up the trays. "Sorry? Uh, no- I'm not entirely sure what they do?"

"First day here?"

Nice accent. Irish? "Yep- new girl, that's me!"

"Well, don't feel yeh have to hide away in the corner- we don't bite," he smiles- and my, my, what a smile. The dark haired man takes a step closer, holding out the tray in his hand. "Can't say I'm too keen on them myself- like to have my wits about me- but they're perfectly safe. Closest thing we can get to a high these days. Takes the edge off a little, is all."

"Hmm, well," Amy beams, remembering her vow to try out new experiences as she carefully picks up the tiniest slice she can find. "Don't mind if I do!" she points at the man sternly, prodding him in the chest. "If I fall over you're catching me, Mister!"

"Of course," he chuckles, a laugh as attractive as his smile.

As she gulps down the surprisingly delicious snack she looks him up and down, long legs to ugly jumper to gorgeous mug, and smiles.

"Amy Dyer," she introduces herself, holding out her hand and batting her eyelashes.

He grins, passing the tray off to someone else and taking her hand (even pressing a little kiss to the back of it, the charmer). "A pleasure, Amy Dyer- Simon. Simon Monroe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Da-da-da-DAAAAAAA!
> 
> So, guess who's turn it is next week? Yep, that's right, it's the morgeous Mr. Monroe's time to shine! Stay tuned!
> 
> Hope you're enjoying the way the story's going- different but recognizable, no? How d'you feel about the kind of changes this little AU has spawned in the canon events? Any feedback is always welcome, as always! I'm sure you're as desperate as I am to get to Kieren's chapter- soon, my pretties, soon!
> 
> Well, until next time! X


	17. In Balance with this Life, this Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look who's back! (spoiler alert- it's me!)
> 
> A big ol' meaty introspective chapter from the POV of our dear Mr. Monroe, now- and don't worry, our darlings will be reunited soon!
> 
> A heap of references to drugs/chemicals/experimentation etc. this chapter- although I think you'll find Si's treatment centre experience isn't quite so horrific this time round! I love him too much to put him through that kind of pain without a silver lining!
> 
> If you thought the changes to Amy's canon story arc were subtle, well, as far as Simon's concerned I promise you the exact opposite. Let's hope his pre-death experience changes it for the better, huh?
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3

_Name: Simon Monroe_

_Sex: Male_

_Date of Birth: 16/10/1982_

_Age: 27_

_Time/Date of Death: 09/12/2009, 12:44p.m_

_Cause of Death: Internal bleeding- patient suffered multiple lacerations and extensive internal bone, muscle and organ damage after being involved in a traffic collision (*see attached file for full autopsy report). Patient survived injuries for approximately three hours, but efforts to repair the damage failed. Pronounced dead on the operating table by on-call surgeon._

* * *

In the desolate halls of the treatment centre, time is irrelevant. It had taken a while for Simon to come to grips with that unsettling fact, and even now he's still not comfortable with it. How many months has he been in here? It could have been years for all he knew. How can he keep track of the weeks if the drugs he's on occasionally make him miss days completely?

He stares sullenly at the blank wall- they still won't let him have any mirrors in here. He misses his poetry books, and what remained of his music collection. The silences in this place are too long, too heavy. It doesn't help that he can't get up and go for a walk, or even pace.

He'd spaced out a bit as the doctors were explaining the extent of his injuries, but he'd got the gist. He'd absorbed most of the impact from the crash, his lungs were toast as were many other internal organs. Unfortunately, the damage didn't end there. Maybe it's a good thing he can't see himself. He must look ridiculous. The living dead, an evil creature of fear and hunger, wasting away in a wheelchair because his spine is basically shattered. God, if Kieren could see him now…

He shouldn't think of Kieren. It never ends well. It always starts with despair as he remembers the crash and the feeling of Kieren going limp in his arms. Then sometimes he's hopeful- he came back, maybe Kieren did too. But then that leads right back to despair as he realises that if he is back, and if they do meet again, Kieren will see him like… this.

It was hard enough before, having Kieren around at his lowest moments. The drugs, the withdrawal, all those fevers and sicknesses. It had been tough, but he'd swallowed his pride and muddled through, because getting better was worth it. But what is he now? Even if he  _could_  get better, what would be the point?

He's just a creature now, a  _thing._ A monster, de-clawed and unable to hunt. This is what he's become, and suddenly he's nostalgic for the days when his only problems were drug addiction, homelessness and crippling depression. And there's no easy way out this time- another overdose is out of the question, as are many other time-honoured escape strategies. This new and  _'improved'_  body is much more durable than what he's used to.

Right now his only option is to keep existing. Not  _living_  per se, and not dying either. Just hovering here in limbo while the world carries on around him, waiting for the day when he might be part of it again. Not that he wants to be, not like this, but it sounds like he doesn't get much choice in the matter.

Now his days are a mixture of sitting alone in his empty room, or leaving himself at the doctors' mercy as they poke around inside him for a cure. He gave them his permission- it's unpleasant and disturbing, but if there's even the slightest chance that he can be like he was then he'll take it.

In the meantime, when he's left to his thoughts while John and Victor clean their surgical implements and warm up the electrodes, he keeps himself sane with what little reassuring reminiscences he can dig up from the tattered remains of his memories. His recollection of the days leading up to his death are patchy at best, but he gets snippets here and there. Things like snatches of tunes and verses of poetry, read many times to an enraptured audience of one. That beautiful man with copper-gold hair and eyes like dark chocolate. He sees his face the most, smiling at him from beneath his favourite leather jacket. Sometimes he thinks thoughts like that are the only thing keeping him going.

He'll survive. He always survives, whether he wants to or not.

He's not sure he really believes in God anymore, and all those old pieces of scripture his parents used to read him don't offer much comfort these days. But even with his jaded soul he prays for Kieren now and then. A part of him feels bad that he wants him to be around- he wouldn't wish this condition on anyone. He doesn't want Kieren to feel like this, torn apart from the inside out.

But pulse or no pulse, white eyes or brown, dead or alive, there is no way in Heaven or Hell he could ever think Kieren a monster.

* * *

Simon has had his fair share of bad years, but the year in the treatment centre is on an entirely new level.

Every night he lies awake in his sterile room, the blankets offering no warmth or even softness to his unfeeling body. Every day brings a new experiment, new tools carving into his skin and new drugs coursing through his sluggish veins. And not the fun kind, either. God, what he wouldn't give to get high again, just once or twice.

They seem no closer to a cure than when they started, the only positive results being improvement to the Neurotriptyline. At first he'd had to have injections of that disgusting stuff every three hours, now after tireless research they've got it down to a daily dose. It's something, but it's no cure. More like anaesthesia, a temporary sedative to keep his wild side under wraps.

The experiments are brutal, and he's almost collapsed into embarrassing tears on more than one occasion, but he grits his teeth and he keeps going. Not just for the sake of the cure- if that was all he had to gain he would have given up months ago, back when he'd first realised how fruitless their efforts were. No, despite their invasive methods and their god-awful bedside manner, it seems that doctors Halperin and Weston actually have their uses. Several months ago they strapped him to a table and carved open his back, and God help him he'd come close to breaking down that day. But they'd done their poking around for clues, found what they needed, and decided to give a little something in return.

He still has no idea how they did it, but supposedly with the discovery of Neurotriptyline the world of restorative neuroscience is really opening up. After weeks and months of experimentation, operations and spinal reconstruction, he can now walk up to three feet unaided. Another month and he might make it to five. It's something, at least- he may still be a monster, but at least he's an intact one.

They'd finally given in and allowed him a small mirror in his room. He still isn't sure why he wanted it so much- it's not like he enjoys being reminded of what he is now. But he felt like it was important to know himself, to know what exactly he's up against.

He looks a mess. Not just because of the white eyes and the zombie skin, that was all expected. But there's so many scars everywhere, scars that are never going to heal properly now his cells can't reproduce. Fortunately his face isn't too warped, although he has a nasty gash down his right cheek, over the bone, worryingly close to his eye. Someone had done their best to stitch it up neatly, but it still looks angry, impossible to ignore. There are more all over his body, mostly his arms and his chest, crisscrossing all the old bruises he'd collected over the years.

He wonders what Kieren would think. Would he kiss these scars the way he had the old ones?

No, best not to think of Kieren.

Nearly a year and a half after the Rising, and not one word about him. No one had seen him at the centre, no one had brought in anyone resembling him- Simon can't even ask anyone to go to his grave and check because he can't remember his damn last name. He'd learned it so close to the accident, those few hours wherein his patchiest memories reside. He knows that he'd liked it, rolled it around on his tongue and known it was perfect, but he can't find so much as a simple first letter in his scrambled brain.

He can't hold on to hope that he'll show up anymore. That would be far too simple, far too kind, and he's never been that lucky.

No, he just needs to think of something else. Find some other reason to want to recover, a reason to keep beating back the monster.

And someone in this damn centre seems desperate to give him one.

He's heard it a few times now- the voice. It's deep, with some kind of accent that almost makes it unintelligible sometimes, but it always comes to him when he can't search for the source. When he's alone on the operating table, strapped down to racks or locked in his room. It comes to him through walls and speakers, quoting familiar Bible verses in his ear. Other people have heard it too, and many of them are starting to believe it.

They call the owner a prophet, and supposedly he's the one who will lead them all to salvation.

Well, whatever helps them get through the day.

Honestly, he's not sure why he's so unaffected by the voice- maybe it's because while the doctors are experimenting on him they're also helping him and he has no real reason to resent them, maybe he's just even more cynical than usual. Hell, maybe he's just annoyed that the bloke's ripping off Revelations when he could be trying to write his own material. Whatever the reason, the voice doesn't seem to hold the same sway over him that it does with everyone else.

It's funny, really. If he'd have died when he'd expected to that night in the rain, he might have leapt right on the bandwagon. He'd always hated the living even when he was one of them, it would have been an incredibly easy step to take.

Of course, then the faceless mass of 'the living' had expanded to include Kieren. And really with any number of people like him hidden away somewhere out there in the world, what could he hope to gain from declaring war? He knows he couldn't possibly turn on Kieren if he was still drifting round the mortal coil, and he can't risk other people just as caring and considerate getting caught in the crossfire.

So no, he will not pick a side. Not yet, at least. Too many variables, and not enough solid reasons to take the leap.

Besides, there are still two 'pathetic humans' waiting and willing to see him.

* * *

"Hi, Mum, Dad," he murmurs, head bowed as he faces them across the table.

Iain remains the picture of stoicism, although his eyes are a chaotic mess of conflicting emotions. Lana, however, has no such reservations, the tears in her eyes warring with the smile on her lips.

"Simon…" she chokes, reaching out to take his hand before noticing the guards standing by with guns and drawing back.

He struggles to find the right words to say to her after so long apart. What do you say to the mother you never thought you'd see again, after being reunited under such impossible circumstances?

"You cut my hair," he blurts accusingly, internally kicking himself.

The relieved laugh that bubbles out of Lana's mouth at the bratty complaint is almost worth the embarrassment. "Sorry- just thought yeh ought to look presentable for a change. Open-casket."

"Ah," Simon mutters grumpily. Well, that would also explain the nice suit they'd found him crawling round the city in, and his meticulously clean-shaven jaw. "Well, cheers, I s'pose."

"Oh, don't make such a fuss," she chuckles fondly. "It'll grow back!"

It won't, but no point making her feel guilty. He just nods with a tight smile, hands clenched together under the table. "So what happened? No one'll tell me anything about…"

He could mean one of two things- his death, or the Rising. Frankly he's not sure which he wants to know about first.

Fortunately, he gets the answers to both. "You were in a car crash," Iain says. "Some kind o' car chase gone awry- apparently the one that hit yeh had about three police cars on its tail. Rounded too fast round a corner, no time to brake."

"The Rising happened in April last year," Lana continues, clutching Iain's hand. "They found yeh at the house, but yeh couldn't walk so you were pretty easy to pick up, I s'pose. Good thing, too- who knows what those soldiers would've done if you'dve-"

"Why weren't you there?" Simon frowns, the memory dimly present at the back of his mind. Even disabled as he was, he could've…

"We moved," Lana says gently. "Few months back."

"Oh," Simon mouths, eyes dropping.

"Yeah," Lana murmurs, smiling weakly. "Well, thought we'd get a fresh start, didn't think we had much reason to stay…"

A fresh start. Away from all the bad memories Simon had left them with. And now he's back, probably to leave them with even more.

"-and you can get that daft look of yeh face!"

He blinks, looking back up at her. "What?"

She gives him a withering look, one he knows all too well. "Don't be going all shame-faced on me again, Simon- this time, at least, it wasn't your fault. Don't go round blaming yourself for all kinds of nonsense again, a'right?"

"I-!" Simon begins, but shrinks under his mother's scrutiny. "Yeah, okay. Sorry, Mum," he mutters.

"Good," Lana smiles with a swift nod, as Iain looks at the edgy face of a nearby guard and tugs her arm. She follows his gaze and cringes. "Ah. Looks like our time's up, Laddie."

"Okay," he says dejectedly, standing at the same time they do (and feeling another guard immediately move to his back as he does so).

Ignoring the concern of their little local audience, Lana rounds the table and envelopes Simon in a warm hug. At least, he assumes it's warm. He cautiously holds her back, carefully not to press too hard with his deceptively strong arms- he doesn't have the best sense of his own strength anymore.

She pulls back and holds his face gently in her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes and not flinching in his dead, lens-covered gaze. "I've told 'em to call us when you're ready to leave, and we'll come and pick yeh up- you'll stay with us for a bit when you're out, eh?"

"Yeah," Simon breathes, the tiny flutter of warmth in his heart the closest thing to a feeling he's had in months. "Yeah, if yeh want me."

"'Course, don't be stupid," she clucks, pecking his cheek before stepping back to her husband's side. "You're our son- we always want yeh."

The guard at their side clears his throat impatiently, and he's still watching them with a catch in his throat as they're led from the oppressive off-white halls and back into the world.

As he walks back to his room on wonky legs, racing against the need to collapse both from emotion and physical exertion, he knows that if he had the tears he'd be crying.

* * *

A few more weeks go by, Simon can walk unaided for approximately ten minutes at a time, and finally the doctors have declared that it's time he went home.

They hand him a bag with his burial clothes, a case of Neurotriptyline and enough mousse and contact lenses to last him at least a year or so, and with a last nod John and Victor send him on his way. He can't say he'll miss them.

It's with mousse, thick like paint on his skin, and contacts that irritate his supposedly un-irritable eyes that he steps out into the compound where his parents wait by the car, taking his bags and helping him into the backseat.

It's with the low, familiar vibration against his back and his forehead pressed to the window that he makes his last forlorn sweep of the grounds, and once again comes up empty in the search for that familiar head of red-gold hair.

It's with the centre at his back and the sunset up ahead that he makes his way back to that old city he called home. He doesn't look back.

Which is a shame, really.

If he had, he might've seen a new van drive through the recently opened gates. He might've seen that van's doors open to allow a squadron of soldiers to step out and steer their rabid undead charges out onto the asphalt, blinded as they were by the sacks on their heads.

And if he'd looked really carefully, taken a moment to glance at one particular shambling rabid with its masked head bowed and its long legs staggering, he might have seen the familiar faded scar that ran the length of its slender wrist.

* * *

It doesn't feel like home when they reach their destination. He tells himself it's because his parents moved and now they're all packed into an average-sized city apartment, but there's more missing than just an old house.

Certain things moved with them- things like the leather armchair his dad loved so much, the one he'd once sat in with Kieren pressed to his side as they both read off the same page in his poetry book. The family laptop, which they'd snuck up to his room on multiple occasions in order to listen to each other's music recommendations, and the familiar handmade patchwork quilt he'd seen Kieren snuggled up in so many times. In a way those memories are comforting, but most of the time they just feel like a constant reminder of what's missing from the picture.

"Mum?"

She looks up from the stove quizzically. "Yes?"

He finds his favourite book of Yeats poems, well-worn and dog-eared on the shelf. He weighs it in his hands, flicks through the pages he knows back to front. "Kieren was in the crash with me, wasn't he?"

She doesn't answer, and he doesn't look up from the pages. The silence is as good an affirmative as any. "Did he…?"  _Did he make it? Did he survive? Is he still out there?_

He looks up to see Lana's face frowning, eyes shining with unshed tears. She bites her lip and shakes her head, and everything he's already known for months is suddenly, brutally confirmed. He isn't surprised, he'd known this all along. It shouldn't feel like all the air has been punched from his useless lungs. He nods wordlessly, gently replacing the book on the shelf.

"Did he ever tell you his name?" he asks, the words coming out choked. "His full name?"

"Not us," she says sadly. "Mind you, 'e never even told us where he came from. Don't s'pose he told you?"

Yes, he did. Many times. The stories he'd told of that town in… with the… the… fuck. "I wouldn't know."

He shouldn't be surprised, really. He'd been the first to respond to Neurotriptyline, and therefore he'd been administered every prototype version of the serum there was. Most of the chemicals in his black blood were largely untested and most likely ineffective, and he'd been warned that he might never recover some memories, especially the ones that weren't so deeply ingrained- namely memories from the last year or so before his death. He could deal with patchy recollections of those years- there hadn't been many positive things to recall from them, anyway- but his inability to remember something so heart wrenchingly important as details about that mysterious boy who'd saved his life is too much to bear.

"Simon," her voice is quiet at his back, much closer than it was before. He turns to face her and feels something soft pressed into his hands.

"He left this," she murmurs. "Must have completely forgot about it. It's not much, but…"

He lets the fabric unfold in his hands, staring down at the nondescript grey hoodie. It looks much cleaner than it did the day he first saw it, the blood washed from the sleeve and the grit and grime of a week sleeping rough long gone, but even so the familiarity takes his breath away for a moment.

He looks back up, but his mother is back at the stove, staring intently down at the soup as it simmers over the flames.

"Thanks," he says softly, holding the hoodie to his chest.

As the food nears completion and his father appears, Simon quietly slinks off to his room- he's not really in the mood for play-eating tonight.

* * *

He spends a few weeks with his parents, camped out in the spare room (which is technically his dad's study with a pull-out bed, but he sees no reason to complain and it's not like his dad actually does much with it these days). He's glad that they don't seem to mind him hanging around, because there's no way he's going to attempt to leave home until he can walk for at least two hours without collapsing. He's getting there, bit by bit, but it's frustrating to admit just how weak he is these days.

He is going to have to leave. No matter how understanding his parents are of his condition, or how scared he is of the treatment he could get out there in the real world, he can't live like this forever. If he doesn't find something to do with his life, something else to fill this void in his heart that Kieren left now that drugs are officially no longer an option, he will most definitely go insane.

He's going through a bag of clothes at his feet- his mum's haul from the local charity shops. In an attempt to find closure after his death most of his clothes had found their way into bins or donation boxes, and he needed some new ones to live in. There's more thick clothes in here than he ever wore in his first life, long sleeved shirts and even some thick jumpers, but that was by his own request. It isn't like he can hold onto his old punk/grunge aesthetic with this respectable new haircut he's sporting anyway, and maybe it's the numerous scars mapping his arms and back but he just feels a lot better keeping his skin covered. He yanks one particularly thick jumper on over his t-shirt, and even though it makes absolutely no difference to his temperature he still feels somehow shielded.

He's looking at his reflection in the shiny surface of his spare cigarette lighter (his favourite one was probably still in his leather jacket- and who knows where that is, now?) and checking his cover-up when he hears a stiff knock on the door. "Yeah?" he says with a frown. Not like Mum to knock.

The door swings open a crack, and Iain enters.

"Simon," he says gruffly, nodding towards the kitchen. "Dinner's nearly ready."

"Thanks, Dad," he says, grimacing. "But I'm not hungry."

"Thought not," Iain grumbles. Simon hasn't expressly  _told_ them about the no-eating thing, but they must have worked it out by now. He expects another brisk nod before Iain walks off to re-join his wife.

Instead he takes a step further into the room, closing the door behind him. Simon's gaze follows him across the room as he settles stiffly in his desk chair, hands buried in his jacket pockets.

"Dad?" he asks after a very long moment of silence.

Iain looks over to Simon, and the bags waiting to be packed under his bed. "Thinkin' of leaving soon, aren't yeh?"

No point lying to him. Simon nods jerkily, fiddling with the sleeve of his jumper. "Yeah."

"Well," Iain huffs, leaning forward in his chair. "Just thought I ought'a talk to you before yeh go. Lot of stuff I didn't get round to saying before…"

He sighs, a deep rattling sound that has his shoulders slumping and his face creasing up. Simon is stunned in the face of it- as far as his father's concerned, he's not sure he's ever seen beneath the surface like this. He looks old, sad, all the anger and detachment replaced by something like defeat.

"You don't need to say anything, Dad…" Simon mutters, because honestly this is completely new territory for them and he's not sure how to deal with it.

Unfortunately, Iain doesn't seem ready to back down. "No, I need to say some stuff. So I'm just goin' to come out with it, and then we never have to speak of this again, all right?"

Simon nods, slightly nervous at the direction this seems to be taking. What is this? Is this another 'you're a disappointment' speech? Is he about to tell him it's a good thing he's buggering off soon, 'cause they can't stand to have his rotten face around? He's working himself up so much over the negative possibilities that when his father finally speaks, it almost flies right over his head.

"I'm sorry."

His brow knits, his eyes narrow. "What?"

"Christ, don't make me say it again," Iain mutters grouchily, kicking the heel of his shoe against the chair. "Y'heard me."

Simon lets his mouth flop open and closed uselessly a few times before Iain rolls his eyes and continues.

"I know we've had a lot o' problems over the years," his dad says brusquely in the understatement of the millennium, not meeting Simon's gaze. " _You've_ had a lot of problems, and I… well, I thought I was doing the right thing at the time, but looking back I s'pose I could've handled it better. Lana always told me so, but…"

Simon nods mutely, stunned in the face of the admission. Was his father actually admitting to being  _wrong_ about something? Somehow that seems even more impossible than rising from the grave.

"I shouldn'tve kicked yeh out, is what I'm saying," he almost barks, attempting to get the hated words out as fast as possible. "And… I should've believed you when yeh said you were gonna get better. It took you a while, but you got there in the end and I s'pose it was no thanks to me. So…"

The silence hangs over them, thick enough to cut with a knife. Simon has to take extra time to process the words, feeling an ancient weight lift from his chest with each syllable.

"I'm sorry, too," he mumbles, hand running anxiously through his weirdly neat hair.

He feels Iain's eyes on him, and he smiles grimly. "'Guess I didn't exactly make it easy for you guys to believe in me. Done a lot of stuff I'm not proud of over the years, and I guess a lot of them came right back to haunt yeh."

His father nods in solemn agreement, standing slowly from his chair. "Yeah, they did. 'Specially Lana- she'd never say it herself, but it's been tough on her."

Simon stands too, shoulders hunched in regret. "I know…"

"So," Iain says sternly, eyes rising to meet Simon's. "S'long as that's all out in the open, feelings talk all done with and that, what say we call it quits?"

"Quits?" Simon says, confused.

"Yeah," Iain mumbles. "You've done stupid things, I've done stupid things, and I say it's time we moved on."

He holds out his hand. "No point wasting that shiny second life o' yours on guilt, eh?"

Simon stares at it, stunned, but he looks into his father's eyes and sees no sign of a joke.

He gingerly extends his arm, and their hands meet in a firm grip, cold skin to warm. With a brisk shake and a sharp nod from Iain, their holds release and his father once again leaves the room, door swinging slowly shut in his wake.

Simon sinks slowly back onto the bed, head still reeling.

For the first time in his second life, the smile on his face is genuine.

* * *

That night, Simon finds himself out on the small balcony, a cigarette pilfered from his dad's desk drawer between his lips. He can't say smoking really does anything for him now, but old habits die hard.

He can't see the stars from here. This place is more central, nestled right in the hub of the busy city, and the difference in the light pollution is astonishing. Kieren would've hated it.

He needs to get out of here, and soon. With nothing to do to pass the time but re-read the same books and watch the news, he's not exactly in the best frame of mind. The problem is where he's going to go- if some of the hair-raising stories he's been hearing on the local news are any indication, the re-integration of the undead has been a sore spot for many people. He doesn't really fancy being knifed on his first day out. No, if he leaves he needs to have a plan, no more aimless wandering like the old days.

He hears a door creak, and tentative footsteps join him on the narrow balcony. "Simon?"

"Hi, Mum," he mumbles, taking one last long drag on the cig before stubbing it out under his foot.

"Y'alright?" she asks cautiously, standing at his side.

"Couldn't sleep."

She nods understandingly, eyes travelling out across the sea of traffic and flickering lights at their feet. She pulls her dressing gown tighter against the cold breeze, making no move to retreat inside. "Simon," she says again, hesitantly.

"Yeah?" he asks, eyes still cast to the bleak sky.

"You're not happy here, are yeh?"

He flinches, looking back down to her and seeing sadness on her face. He shakes his head regretfully, fingers knotted in his jumper sleeves. "No. Not right now."

She finally turns to look at him, eyes searching. "So what d'you want to do?"

He shrugs. "Dunno. Not much I can do- nowhere to go, not many places that'd hire me, nothing I want to do…"

"There must be something," she tuts, frowning as a drop of rain lands by her hand on the railing. "Doubt you'd be back if there wasn't something for yeh."

"Wouldn't the universe be neat if it worked like that," he says dryly, smiling as she smacks his arm.

"Don't be such a pessimist, lad," she snorts, forcing good humour into her voice. "You'll find something!"

He sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. His fingers brush something, and he frowns as he carefully extracts it. He finds a small piece of folded paper, crumpled after no doubt being hastily slipped in. He realises he's wearing the same jeans he wore home from the treatment centre, the ones he hasn't worn for weeks. He carefully unfolds the paper, feeling his mother's gaze on him, curious but not prying.

When the paper unfolds he finds himself staring at a phone number, scrawled beneath familiar words. He must have heard them, or variations of them many times, whispered in his ear by his ever-helpful fellow inmates.

_Nothing you can do can make God love you more or less, and what once was can't always be recovered._

_If you can't find what you seek, search with us._

"Simon?" his mother asks carefully, peering at the paper perplexedly. "What's that?"

He tucks it back into his pocket with a wry smile, turning back to the door.

"Let's call it plan B."

* * *

As the weeks passed and no more ideas presented themselves, plan B soon became plan A. And so, safe in the knowledge that he was ready to walk a fair distance (with the aid of crutches, of course) and with a backpack of bare essentials ready to go, Simon woke up for the last time on the pull-out bed, eyes immediately going to the paper on the desk, every word memorised.

He didn't have to get in too deep. He'd seen some things on the news over the last few weeks that made his black blood boil, but he didn't detest humans on the whole. He didn't view himself as some kind of master race, nor did he think he was better or more deserving of life than the 'pulse-beaters'. But he'd looked into the communes, sanctuaries for his kind, a place of retreat for all those who had been shunned or wounded by the living. He may not be an extremist or a warrior, but he could help in other ways. It was something to do, a cause, something he could take pride in. It's something, and it's the best he's got.

He takes a step out onto the street, immediately feeling the sting of diesel in the air burn his throat and smiling at the familiar sensation. He doesn't get many of those, these days.

"You sure about this,  _alanna?_ "

He turns back to his mother with a smile, trying to ease the worry off her face. "Yeah. I have to do something, I don't think I have it in me to waste away a second time round."

She nods, but she still looks uncertain. "You know where you're going? Got enough money?"

"Yeah, Mum," he says, patting his pocket. "It's not far, other side of the city so I reckon, I'll get there in no time."

"Are you sure you don't want to tell me where it is, just in case-"

"Mum," he says firmly, taking a step closer to her and leaning his crutches against the wall so he can cup her face. "I'll be fine. Promise."

She nods, sniffling as she raises her hand to cover his. He looks at her sweet face, probably for the last time, and wishes desperately that he didn't have to break her heart again.

"Mum," he murmurs. "You 'ave to promise me something, too."

She looks at him quizzically, blue eyes sparkling.

He gulps, dry mouth choking the words he should've said so long ago. "Don't wait for me."

Her confusion deepens, her forehead creases. "Simon…"

"I need you to promise," he says sincerely, meeting her gaze with artificial eyes and imploring her to understand. "No more waiting by the phone, no more watching the news waiting for me to show up on there. If you wanna move, you move, if you wanna go on holiday you do and yeh don't think of me, all right?"

She looks distraught, but he can't stop. If he doesn't say this now, it'll be just like last time. "Mum," he whispers, kissing her forehead. "You've wasted your life on me once before, don't do it again, yeah?"

She sobs, and he brushes away the tears as best he can. "Simon," she chokes again, hand tightening its grip on his own.

"Please, Mum," he says, a broken plea, stroking her dark hair from her face and meeting her glistening eyes sadly. "Do it for me?"

She stares him down, blue eyes meeting ones that used to be the same, and with a choking sob she nods her head.

He smiles, his own eyes prickling with unshed tears. "Thanks," he mumbles, pulling her close for one last hug. As she buries her face in his chest he looks over her to the open door of the apartment complex, coming face to face with Iain Monroe.

Father and son stare each other down a moment, air crackling with unsaid words.

Finally Simon smirks wryly, knowingly, and raises one hand to his forehead in a salute.

After a second, and a brisk nod of approval, his father returns the gesture.

It seems too abrupt as he breaks away from Lana, pressing one last fleeting kiss to her cheek as he once again gathers up his crutches. But even as he feels a little part of him rip apart he smiles at them both, trying to fill them with as much reassurance as he can that this time, just this once, he really will be fine.

As he limps out into the city, so familiar and yet now so distant, like an alien world, he spares one last thought for all those familiar things. The chair, the laptop, the quilt. He has a little piece of that home with him, the well-loved poetry book nestled safely in his bag underneath his contacts, the only piece he could stand to bring. He imagines that even as he travels further away and leaves everything he once knew behind he'll still read aloud in bed at night, reading to the memory of the man who used to listen to his words like a lullaby.

Kieren may not be around anymore- maybe he never rose, maybe he didn't make it far from the graveyard, who can tell- but his memory is there. He existed, as proven by the soft grey hoodie folded in his bag beneath the book, and for a split second they really were happy together. For a little while he'd been there to paint the stars on Simon's skin and make the world seem a little less bleak, and Simon will carry that with him long after the rest of his meagre belongings have perished.

And so Simon Monroe begins his journey into the unknown, into this brave new world.

This time, if it's the last thing he does, he will find his place in it.

* * *

Life is good in the commune- or at least as good as it can be, considering who and what they are.

Okay, it's small and somewhat squalid, little in terms of creature comforts, but they have a roof over their head and a safe space so really it's the best they could hope for.

Despite his refusal to accept the sought-after role of disciple to the Undead Prophet, Simon finds himself a place in the little community almost overnight. He's no extremist, he can't say he's here for religious purposes- in the end, he just wants to help out, and take his mind off a certain mysterious brown-eyed stranger. Fortunately, there's plenty of work going round to make that possible.

New people come in every once in a while, and he helps tend their injuries. He helps to brew extra knock-off Neurotriptyline (lord knows he has a pretty good idea of how it's made after being the subject of so many early tests. Besides, he always had a good head for chemicals). But most of all, he does whatever he can to keep everyone's spirits up. He's lived an entire first life full of disappointment and misery, he's determined not to waste his second chance on it.

So he reads to them from his poetry book, reads them some of the more uplifting passages from the Bible, and after someone discovered his musical streak they dug out an ancient acoustic guitar from some godforsaken corner of the old place. He was nervous about playing for them, even more so about singing for them, but the more he did it the more natural it felt. His only sadness comes from knowing that all these people, these undead almost-strangers heard him play before Kieren ever had the chance to.

But with his mind occupied on the work he does, with sad thoughts of Kieren getting fewer and further-between, he gets by. He fills his new life, this time with something that could be considered meaningful, and he survives.

And a year later, on the night of a busy cross-commune party, he even makes a friend.

"Enough o' the long face, Mymon!" she chirps, lightly butting his jaw with her fist. "Yer chin's practically on the floor- try not to step on it!"

He chuckles, and her grin spreads wider. Amy Dyer is an odd one. She sweeps through life in a perky hurricane of joy and petticoats, she sees good where she can find it and still has the presence of mind to be sarcastic and cynical of the bullshit. But even after having died of cancer, gone on a bloodthirsty killing spree and been rejected by the place she used to call home like a bad organ transplant, she still greets every new day like a gift and imbues each second with laughter. She is honestly one of the most improbable people he's ever met, as well as one of the loudest, and definitely one of the best. At first her relentless cheer had been exhausting, but now he draws energy from it. He's starting to wonder how he ever survived the daily drag without her there to lighten the mood.

She snuggles further into his side, nestling beside him in a worn-out armchair in the communal space as he reads out from his book. Or rather, as he stares silently at his book- it's only now she points it out that he realises he went silent for a moment there, staring at the new page with a heavy frown on his lips. He recognises this poem, more than the others. There's a significance, something's there…

"What're yer thinking about?" she asks quietly, chin on his shoulder.

"Nothin'," he smiles, shaking his head. "Just… reminiscing."

She nods understandingly, cuddling him tighter. She knows all about his dodgy memories, and his struggle to find the ones that matter. She can tell when he's chasing something.

"We should go on holiday sometime," she suggests brightly, smoothing his hair. "Get a change o' scene- we could have an early honeymoon!"

He laughs softly, rolling his eyes- that old chestnut, again. "Where'd yeh have in mind?"

"We could sneak onto a ferry and go to France!" she suggests, before wrinkling her nose. "That is, if yeh don't mind all the French people. All right, maybe not. Ooh, Spain!"

"Maybe someday," he murmurs, non-committal, leaning his head atop hers wearily as the memory once again fails to surface.

"Fair enough. Just thought it'd do yeh good, is all," she says, gently prying the book from his hands. "Besides, I've always wanted to travel."

"Never done it before?"

She shakes her head, jostling him slightly. "Nah. Been stuck in the same rut since the day I were born. Always assumed I'd have all the time in the world to…"

She smacks her knees and jumps up, immediately recovering from the heavy moment. "Well, I need some shut-eye, looks like you could do with a bit, too! Never you fear, Gorgeous, you and I will travel the world one of these days!"

"I'm sure," he smiles, standing up and taking the book from her hands. "Don't worry- one day you'll have seen so many wonderful new places you won't even remember…" he frowns, cocking his head. "Where're you from, again?"

There's something off in her gaze, something expectant, something a little like hope mixed with dread as she answers. "Roarton."

She turns and skips away, tulle skirts rustling. His numb fingers flick slowly through the pages, mind once again miles away.

_Roarton… fuck, that sounds familiar._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JUST REMEMBER, GOD, YOU'RE SO FUCKIN' FRUSTRATING!
> 
> *ahem: Sorry 'bout that!
> 
> So, we've had Amy and Simon, guess you all know what this means! Next comes the turn of everyone's favourite zombie Bambi :3 I'll try to make it worth your while! Once all the strings have been laid down we can finally start drawing them together (with the beautiful genius' help, of course, as she is obviously the only remaining link between the two- I'm sure she'll figure something out!)
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely reviews/comments thus far, you light up my life!
> 
> Until next time! X


	18. Silent the Voice We Loved to Hear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again!
> 
> Fair warning: This chapter is a freaking MONSTER. Like, prior to this chapter there were like 68k words altogether across seventeen chapters, there are 10K WORDS IN THIS CHAPTER ALONE. You have been warned.
> 
> I really have no excuses for the length of this chapter apart from I love Kieren Walker with all my heart and the poor dear has a lot of crap to deal with- hey, let's face it, basically the entirety of series one was about him so there's a lot to cover! I hope the obscene length and my efforts to fit a lot of stuff into one installment doesn't screw up the pacing, but you never know!
> 
> Buckle up, buttercups- it's gonna be a bumpy ride! Further chapter/character notes at the end!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3

_Name: Kieren Walker_

_Sex: Male_

_Date of Birth: 18/03/1991_

_Age: 18_

_Time/Date of Death: 08/12/2009, approx. 10:36 a.m._

_Cause of Death: Heart failure- victim was already dead upon arrival of the ambulance, paramedics and morticians agreed that he most likely died shortly after the collision when the shock sent him into cardiac arrest. His body remained largely intact, most likely due to his travelling partner (see file 11090- Simon Monroe) whose body absorbed most of the damage from the impact._

* * *

"I'm not ready…"

The doctor looks up quizzically, eyebrow raised. "No? What makes you say that?"

"I don't…" Kieren huffs, fingers nervously tapping against his knees. "I don't  _feel_ ready."

"And that's exactly why you are," the doctor replies kindly, pen scratching the final required dates on the form. "You're  _feeling._ "

Kieren nods, unconvinced, taking the form offered to him and reluctantly slouching out of the examination room. There's no negotiating with the people here, he's learned that by now. If they say it's time to go, then it's time go. He just wishes he had a little more time.

It's not that he  _enjoys_ the treatment centre- it's dull, cold (well, probably) and he passes all the time in group counselling sessions and physiotherapy, but it's safe, more or less. The guards are under orders not to fatally wound, only to subdue should the need arise, and any humans who happen to be wandering the halls are all perfectly aware of and indifferent to his condition.

So no, he doesn't want to leave. He doesn't want to go out into the world he'd been tearing apart up until a few months ago, he doesn't want to walk among the people he'd terrorised for so long and feel like some kind of imposter.

Besides, if he leaves now he may never find…

He sighs, all the air he'd inhaled from force of habit rushing out in one gasp. He can't base any of his decisions on that man. He has no idea what the situation is there- maybe he didn't even die in the crash. Or if he did, there was no guarantee he'd come back, and certainly no guarantee he'd survive long enough to be brought here before being shot in the head by some farmer protecting their property.

No, better to just do as he's told and pack up. He can't keep waiting around, pining over some impossible dream.

As he makes it through the slow queue, hands full of mousse and contacts and all the things he needs to make himself invisible in the harsh world outside the fence, he finds himself at the final checkpoint.

"Name?"

"Kieren Walker," he mutters for the fiftieth time that day, wondering why it isn't enough to just hand over the damn form.

"Great," the bony nurse with the glasses sliding down her nose says, scribbling in the box. "Cleared to leave, huh? Good for you- another day in this place and  _I_ might go rabid."

"Yeah," Kieren grumbles. Real tasteful joke to make to newly reformed, barely post-rabid 'rotter'.  _Tsk. Humans. Wow, can't believe I actually just thought that._

"Well, we'll see about making the necessary calls tonight, see if we can't get someone here for you this week," she continues, unaware of the quiet hostility radiating off him. "Who should we be asking for?"

For a split second he considers saying a different name to the one on his papers. He considers asking for the woman who'd taken him in before he died, given him a home when he'd abandoned his old one. Maybe she would know, maybe she's heard something…

"Sue and Steve Walker," he says quietly, watching the black ink as it flows across the page. "My parents."

Then again, maybe he really doesn't want to know.

* * *

It's the worst at night, when the sun goes down and there's nothing to do in the darkened room but think. That's when the memories start resurfacing, so intense it's like watching the scene play out right before his very eyes.

He hates this part, the Neurotriptyline rebuilding pathways in his head, bringing back memories he'd rather lose for good. The doctors tell him it's a good thing- that he's showing remarkable recovery, that he's recovering lost brain activity at an unprecedented rate. Given their patchy past results at full patient rehabilitation and memory retrieval, they take his clarity and visual recollection to be a blessing. Certainly doesn't feel like that when the nightmares come.

He remembers one kill more than others. He remembers a shop, grimy vinyl floors and endless shelves of all the things he'd found delicious in his first life. None of that interested him now, though- now all he could focus on was the nearby sound of a thrumming heartbeat, the warmth of a living body so close, so intoxicating. How could he resist?

A girl's face swims into view, her eyes widening in terror as his cold hands reach out and take her by the throat, clawing at the warm blood pumping beneath the soft skin, bashing her head against the wall and feeling a sick sense of satisfaction as more oozes free from the crack in her skull…

He splutters awake, the gruesome image still branded at the forefront of his mind as he stares vacantly at the empty room. It's still dark, barely glowing with the pre-dawn light through the narrow window, still sparse as can be with nothing but an open bag and a chair filling the space. The bag he'd been sent two days ago ahead of time with clean clothes, and snacks he has absolutely no use for (although he will admit to opening a pack of smoky bacon crisps and just inhaling the scent for a few minutes, nostalgic for simple pleasures). The bag sent by his parents, the parents who are going to see him. Today. Oh, fuck.

 _Home._ The word tastes strange on his tongue, not because he doesn't know what it means but because he's not sure it has the same associations anymore. For the last month of his human life home had been a cramped house on the city limits, a musty old record store, a warm jacket with ten years of cigarette smoke amassed in the lining. What is it now? Does everything just… reset? Is it back to how it was, keeping his head down, forcing a smile, pretending that everything's fine and dandy for his family's sake?

He feels guilty for thinking it- they're his family, his blood, and he loves them more than he can say. But for a little while there he got a taste of something. Some kind of freedom in knowing that he didn't have to pretend not to be broken, something reassuring in knowing that it was okay to feel that way, and that he wasn't the only one.

He sighs out a useless lungful of air, shucking away the blankets covering his pale body and scrambling from the bed in clumsy, sleep-deprived steps. He walks to the mirror, not looking at the other bed- the perfectly made, recently empty bed. He entertains the thought of running away to the city once more and searching for Simon, but locks the notion away deeper with every brush of mousse across his skin.

Fantasy's over- time to get back to reality.

* * *

His stomach is in knots the entire drive home. Even huddled in the backseat, away from his parents eyes he feels exposed, out of place, his continued existence the obvious elephant in the room.

He's happy to see them- delirious, in fact. He'd almost broken down crying, but frankly Sue had been doing enough of that for both of them. So instead he'd just shuffled along quietly behind them as one of his counsellors explained his condition and his terms of release, forced an overly-enthusiastic smile onto his face whenever they looked at him, and allowed them to bundle him into the car for the long ride home.

One person, however, had been conspicuously missing from the welcoming committee.

He tries to tell himself that she was just anxious, or maybe just couldn't be asked with sitting in cars for hours on end, but he knows that's not all there is to it. Regardless of how tragic and accidental his death had been, he had left her behind once before. That was on him, and now it's time to deal with the fallout.

He has a lot of explaining, grovelling and making-up to do.

* * *

All things considered, it's not a bad first day at home. He watches DVDs (and not just DVDs, his father proclaims proudly as he flaunts his new blu-ray collection), has a delicious family meal (well, he assumes it's delicious, not that he can actually eat it), and doesn't get shouted at.

No, technically, that bit doesn't happen until one a.m. the next day, when Jem barges into his room. She's calm, at first-  _cold_ , even. He's never seen her like that before. She asks what he is, why he's here- what kind of sick demon is he, climbing from Hell and wearing her brother's skin? He almost doesn't argue. For a long time he'd believed something like that himself- still does, in his heart of hearts, still believes that he shouldn't be here, that he's just a shadow of himself.

But he tries. He tries to justify himself to her, tries to convince her that it's really him, back from the dead. And he must succeed, because eventually her cool demeanour fades, replaced by honest rage and grief on her young face.

"You just  _left,_ Kier!" she barks, unmindful of their parents asleep in the next room. The time for quiet questioning is over. "No note, no warning,  _nothing-_ I thought yeh were dead! Where the fuck did yeh go?"

"I'm sorry," he rasps, wishing he could drink just to abate the horrible dryness in his throat. "I didn't mean to be gone so long, I just… I needed to get away, for a while."

"Why?" she demands, livid, attempting to hide the slightest sniffle and furiously wiping her eyes. "Yeh sick of us?"

"It was nothing to do with-" he protests feebly, but she'll have none of it.

"Well, guess what, it didn't work," she snaps, stomping her feet on the way to the door. "You even fucking  _died_ to get away from us, but congratulations, looks like yer back! Hope your second fucking life isn't an  _inconvenience!_ "

She slams the door behind her, plunging him once more into darkness. He wants to follow her, protest, apologise, but what can you say to that? How can you possibly make something like this right?

He sinks back down into bed, cradling a pillow to his chest as he feels the emptiness spread. He buries his face in it and sobs, dry eyes clamped shut against the staring faces of the paintings on the wall, achingly familiar faces with smiles that mock him.

It's only as he blots out the rest of the room, imagines that the pillow in his grip is a warm torso, imagines the blankets are strong arms marred with purple marks like constellations, that he finally falls into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

The next few days don't get any easier. His parents still pretend he isn't… what he is. Jem still doesn't talk to him- well, it's better than shouting, but not by much. And he still can't leave the house, because one little detail his parents decided not to mention on the way home was that the local HVF was still very much in force and to leave the house could easily result in a bullet in the head.

And for poor Maggie Burton, it had.

He was standing at his window, staring out into the darkened street when she collapsed in a lifeless heap to the ground, hole in her skull seeping black blood onto the tarmac as Bill Macy lowered his gun. He'd heard Ken's anguished cries from across the street, just as loud and jarring as the shot itself.

For the first time it really hit him. What he was, what he'd done, how everyone else saw him. To people like Bill he's just a creature, a monster that needs hunting. He lost his right to be a person the second he crawled out of his coffin.

The funny thing about tragedies is it really puts things in perspective. Makes you think about what you had, what you took for granted before you lost it. Makes you pine for things that used to seem as natural as breathing.

It's also a great way of finding out who your real enemies are.

Because though Jem still doesn't talk to him, doesn't even look at him if she can help it, she had warned him. She got her orders and she ignored them in favour of hiding him, dragging him out of the line of fire.

Jem may not be his friend anymore, but she still has his back. Against her friends, her commanders, even against her own morals, she will stand by him when he needs it. He's her brother, and she'll defend him as such, whether she thinks he deserves it or not.

And maybe one day, with enough hard work and grovelling, he can convince her- and himself- that he does.

* * *

He's not exactly sure why he thinks sneaking out of the house for the express purpose of visiting his own grave is a good idea. Amongst other things it's just so…  _morbid._ And risky. But the curiosity is eating away at him like a plague, and he needs to get out of the house before he gets serious cabin fever.

Honestly, the first thing that hits him as he stares down at the stone is disappointment, and not just because of the awful inscription. There's just something so unsatisfactory about seeing your entire existence reduced to a half-metre chunk of granite and a shitty poem. Is that all it comes down to, in the end? Do you just live your entire life hoping to do something good, to be something better and instead just wind up an oversized paperweight and a couplet? That's… depressing.

He wishes Simon were here. He'd probably say something poetic- it'd still be depressing as fuck, but maybe not so blunt. Not so rough and sudden and downright dismal as staring at a lump of rock and realising it's all that remains of you. Well, all that remain _ed._

He straightens up, deciding that maybe it'd be best to just leave it. Obviously it's only putting him in a worse mood, and he has enough bad vibes to deal with as it is.

But as he stands up he hears a voice, panicking as he realises he isn't quite as alone as he thought. He whips round to look at the owner, seeing a girl in a dress chatting to a headstone a few graves away, and naturally he does the only thing any sane, inconspicuous, smooth person would do.

He stumbles back, crunches seemingly every twig in the universe on his way, and dives behind his tombstone.

Apparently he wasn't quick enough.

As the girl approaches, pretty face looming over him and long hair fluttering in the breeze, he feels a cold pang of recognition. The face is smooth, normal, clean, but he remembers it clearly. Remembers the blank eyes, the tearing teeth, the blood on her chin as red as the flower in her hair. His head hurts, he wants to scream, run away until the images fade.

She obviously doesn't feel the same way. A smile spreads across her face, brighter than the midday sun.

"I know you!"

* * *

"I'm really sorry about the…"

"No use crying over spilled guts, Handsome," she rolls her eyes, smacking his shoulder. "You and I aren't exactly mere mortals anymore- what's a little stabbing between friends, eh?"

Amy Dyer is, without a doubt, one of the strangest people he has ever met. He can already tell that knowing her is going to be both an entertaining experience, and an exhausting one. She has more energy than anyone who's dragged themselves from a hole in the ground ought to have, and apparently her good mood is dangerously contagious.

It's a day of firsts- first time seeing his own final resting place, first time stabbing someone through the stomach, first time going to a carnival with a virtual stranger. Then again, he did  _move in_  with a virtual stranger not long before his death. Maybe he's just getting into bad habits. But he's not particularly worried about Amy- she may be unfamiliar, but she isn't exactly threatening. No, he's more worried about all the other people at the fair. Human people, probably people who've seen him before- Hell, probably people who went to his funeral. He's going to give someone a nasty shock. Best case scenario, they faint and he runs away and they pass it off as a hallucination. Worst case scenario, they're the mob and he's the monster.

He flinches when he feels something touch his back, before realising it's just Amy's hand.

"No need to stress out so much, worrywart," she chuckles, ruffling his hair. "You'll be fine- stick with me and yeh can't go wrong!"

"Yeah, right," he grumbles, not believing he's that lucky for even a second.

* * *

He's out of breath when he staggers back into the empty house- which is impressive considering he didn't need it to begin with.

That was close. Too close.  _Way_ too fucking close. Who knows what would have happened if he hadn't made a run for it? But quick getaway or not, the damage has been done.

They know.

Now the father of one of his old school friends knows, and he'd shouted it in front of a fairground full of people. Word will spread, rumours about the rotter next door, and eventually it'll get to…

He gulps, seizing his key and locking the door behind him. They'll come for him, like they came for Maggie. Poor Maggie… He still hears that shot, echoing hollowly in his mind amidst the noise of his nightmares.

"You'll be fine," he mutters unconvincingly, rubbing his arms for the illusion of warmth. "You'll be fine, you'll be fine, you'll be-"

The lock rattles, and if he had a heartbeat to begin with it would have stopped dead.

He lets out his bated breath in a ragged sigh as Steve enters, face concerned. "Y'alright, son?"

"Yeah," Kieren says, forcing a smile. "Fine."

"You cold?"

Kieren cocks his head to side, confused.

"You've got my hoodie on," Steve clarifies.

A moment of panic assails him- he hadn't taken it off. He'd worn it to the graveyard, used it to hide his face since his own hoodie was still at…

"S'alright," Steve smiles as he fumbles for an explanation. "Is a bit chilly in 'ere- I'll put the heating on!"

Sue also enters, offering Kieren a smile. Jem is behind her, and she gives no such comfort- but she does give him a decidedly  _weird_ look before retreating upstairs to her haven of heavy metal. He's too preoccupied to question it.

Right now, he just wants to enjoy his last few hours (or minutes) of peace before the ever-determined local HVF comes a-knocking.

* * *

He spends the day practically worrying himself to a second death, getting wound tighter with every tick of the clock. But in the end, the first person to come knocking at the Walker house isn't a maniac. At least, not a gun-toting one.

As Amy talks to him, an endless stream of chatter in his ear, he actually finds himself relaxing. Even pale-faced and white-eyed, she seems to exude life, cheerful and vibrant in ways that should surely be impossible for someone like them. He thought he'd find the relentless optimism annoying, but actually it's exactly what he needs right now.

They talk for hours about November 2009. He tells her about the city, about Simon, everything he remembers aside from one or two key details he'd rather keep to himself. And she, in turn, tells him what he was missing back in Roarton while he was off 'gallivanting', as she put it.

He feels his gratefulness towards this girl increasing with every passing minute. In her own, Amy-ish way, she'd done what he couldn't in all the time he was away. She'd stayed close, she'd talked to people, and had probably succeeded in keeping his family sane better than he could have hoped. He probably owes the lack of screaming from Jem on his first phone call home to Amy's company. He probably owes her more than he can ever hope to repay, to be honest. Probably the very least he owes her is the complete, uncut truth.

But maybe not tonight.

She hugs him, gives him sympathy for the mysterious man he's lost, telling him he'll turn up sooner or later, or he could track him down himself. He tells her he doesn't know his last name, tells her it must have got lost in the chaos.

He lies.

Simon Monroe. Monroe, as in Marilyn. He remembers it, clear as day. He could find a Manchester area phonebook and track him down in minutes flat if he wanted. If he felt he could handle whatever he might find.

But there really is no way he can promise himself that.

Right now, Simon could be anything. He could be alive, could be dead, could be dead but alive, could even be dead but alive and then re-dead. Either he's around, or he isn't. But Kieren doesn't know what he would do with either result. If he's alive, could he seek him out knowing what he did? Knowing that without him, and without that stupid ill-timed taxi ride, Simon would never have been in that accident? If he's dead, what then? What does he do when he knows that the one person he felt really knew him, understood him, the broken man he'd pieced back together with his own hands only to have the favour returned, is gone for good?

No. Right now, Simon Monroe is Schrodinger's cat- until Kieren opens the box, seeks out the truth, he could be living, dead or even both. And Kieren has no desire to lift the lid. God, he wouldn't even know about that fucking principle without Simon's endless droning about science and philosophy. He misses it, misses those long nights, the first ones under the stars and the last ones under that old ceiling, when all they'd had was each other and a lot of time on their hands.

He tries to be present as she talks to him, reassures him as best she can, but he thinks a little part of himself is still standing on that bridge at dawn, staring down at the water and wondering what it would be like to be swept away by the current. There are little pieces of him scattered all around, now- on the park bench, watching the stars from the shelter of a smoke-scented jacket. In the old armchair, huddled under Mrs. Monroe's favourite quilt. In that grubby diner, eyes meeting Simon's across the table as they both scoff greasy bacon and eggs like a last meal. Little pieces of his soul, scattered across the world in all the places he'd seen as home, however briefly. How can he ever truly be whole, or free, with fragments of himself so hopelessly out of reach?

She's talking to him about last words, last thoughts. He remembers noise, the deafening crash of metal on metal, and remembers a very particular image it conjured in his mind. Fireworks, exploding against the endless black of the night sky, dazzling reds and golds. It should be a nice thought, a pretty thought, but it isn't. It's haunted. Haunted by…

"Rick's back."

The worlds stops, along with his breath and what remains of his heart. Jem meets his gaze, and he searches her for lies but finds none.

He feels like a puppet on a string as he stands up, body moving of its own volition while his mind reels. Jem's concerned look slips right past him, as does Amy's confused line of questioning. Whether they follow him or not is irrelevant. But he has to see, for himself. He has to  _know…_

For now, the matter of Simon Monroe can wait.

* * *

"What happened to yeh, Ren?"

Kieren chews his lip, hiding his face in the darkness of the backseat. This whole evening has just been… draining. There was no romantic reunion- but what had he expected? That Rick would just ignore the eyes of his father, the HVF and the rest of the town and just fucking  _dip_  him, right there in the damn pub? No, of course not. But a hug would have been nice. Hell, he would have settled for a boyish hair ruffle or even a headlock, just not that stiff, awful, disgustingly formal handshake. What the  _fuck_ was that?

And now they're here, huddled guiltily in the dark, faces lit only by the pale moonlight that bleeds through the trees. They don't have long. Bill could come back any minute, anyone could. They have minutes, at most, and he knows that isn't even close to enough time to say… everything.

"Why're you… like yeh are?" Rick presses, staring intently at Kieren's face like he can see right through the mousse to the pale skin underneath.

"Car crash," Kieren says, barely audible.

"What, same one as Freddie? What were you doin'-"

"No, different one," Kieren clarifies, drumming his fingers nervously on his scarred wrist. "Went away for a bit, to the city. Wrong place, wrong time…"

"Why'd yeh go away?"

"I needed…" Kieren rasps, throat dry as parchment. "I needed to get away for a while."

"You were gonna get away, Ren," Rick says, turning fully round to face him. "Art college- you were in, you were out of 'ere!"

"Not soon enough," Kieren chuckles humourlessly. "I needed to get  _out_ , no waiting around."

"Why?"

Kieren looks up to him, their lens-covered eyes meeting in the gloom. "You know why."

Rick blinks, and there's hurt masked in the angry lines of his face. "What, yer blaming this on me?"

"No…" Kieren says weakly, but Rick's still talking.

"I left so you could get on with yer life, Ren," he says, and the anger's definitely surfacing now. "I didn't wanna hurt yeh, I just knew I had to… y'know."

"You could have said something," Kieren murmurs.

"Thought it'd be easier on us both if I just…" he gulps, and for the first time all night he looks as nervous as Kieren feels. "I thought… clean break."

"That wasn't a clean break, Rick," Kieren says, eyes hard. "That was you leaving, and that was me sitting here with no idea why, or where you were, or what it meant for  _us._  If you wanted a clean break you come to me, and you tell me it's over and that's that. It would've hurt but at least I'd have known where we stood."

"I'm sorry," Rick grits out, kicking the car door quietly. "Handled it badly, I know."

"Yeah, just a bit," Kieren grumbles, slouching back in the seat. He stares out the window, at the stars peeking through the thick canopy of leaves, and his eyes drift closed as he releases a long, drawn-out sigh. "I'm sorry, too."

He can't see it, but he hears the confusion on Rick's face. "What?"

"S'not your fault," Kieren says, fingers relaxing from their restless drumming to just trace the puckered pink line on his skin. He'd been perfectly ready to blame Rick for all his misfortune in the past, but…

He straightens up, turning his gaze back on his best friend. "What you did to me hurt, Rick. And it fucked me up. But I don't blame yeh."

Rick looks conflicted, relief and guilt warring on his face. "Yeh don't?"

"No," Kieren whispers. He looks at Rick and knows that what he's about to say is new for them, something they'd never discussed before because it would make everything too real, too raw, like passing the point of no return. But he's not wasting another life treading on eggshells.

So, in the darkened car under the trees, barely a mile from the place they used to go and talk about anything but the real stuff, Kieren tells the truth.

"I was already fucked up, Rick."

Rick looks like he wants to stop him and protest- and God, Kieren loves him for that- but he has to get this out. They can't waste another life pretending that this isn't an issue, pretending everything's fine.

"Even before you knew me, I was different," Kieren says softly, fingers still tracing the scar. "I've always been that way, even when I didn't know it. My parents didn't like talking about it, so I didn't either. And I figured you and I had enough problems without…"

He smiles feebly, and as he speaks he can't decide whether the weight is lifting from his chest or just dragging him further down. "Been ill for a long time," he says, tapping his forehead. "In here. Just got pretty fuckin' good at ignoring it. It was always bad, and this bloody place made it worse, but… you helped me forget. And then when you were gone…"

He clears his throat, fighting past that awful feeling like the scrape of sandpaper on his vocal chords. "So yeah, what you did wasn't helpful, but," he shrugs, sad acceptance washing over him. "It's not fair to blame everything that happened on you."

He feels like it's a big moment- one of those epiphany moments, where you come to peace with yourself and with others, letting go of the past, the beginning of a clean slate. But it doesn't really feel like that. It feels rushed, feels like they've stolen this moment in the backseat of a damn car on the way to a hunt and they still haven't said even half of what needs to be discussed. It's about as underwhelming and lacklustre as their super romantic reunion. God, is everything in his second life going to be so fucking disappointing?

"Ren."

He looks back up at Rick's face, just the way he remembers it behind the cuts and stitches. His best friend looks scared, looks doubtful, but there's something a little like hope in his eyes that keeps him talking.

"I never meant to hurt yeh, leaving like I did," he says, scratching his scars nervously. "But if it's okay with you, we have a second chance now and…" slowly, shakily, he reaches out a hand towards Kieren. "And I wanna try 'n make it up to you."

Kieren stares at that familiar hand, and feels hope to match Rick's rising in his chest. Gingerly, still vaguely afraid it could be yanked away at any second, he reaches out and touches his hand to Rick's. Their fingers twine, loosely meshed on the seat back between them. Their eyes lock, and for a moment it's like they can both trick themselves into thinking it's their real eyes looking back at them.

"I'd like that," Kieren says softly.

* * *

Barely another minute passes before Bill's impatient voice rings out through Rick's walkie talkie. Reluctantly, they separate their hands and slip out of the car, Rick slinging his gun over his shoulder. A part of Kieren wants to go with him, make sure that they don't shoot some poor hapless rabid in cold blood, but he's not sure he can. After such a wonderful yet fleeting moment of tenderness, of honesty between them both, he's not sure he can stand to see Rick go back to how he is when he puts on the mask for his dad. He thinks it'll break his heart.

So he smiles, tells Rick not to do anything he wouldn't do. Rick promises, and even though he knows that doesn't necessarily count for much coming from him, he takes it as reassurance.

Then, with his radio buzzing impatiently on his belt and the moonlight shining off the barrel of his rifle, he leans in and presses a fleeting kiss to Kieren's cold lips. It's so quick that Kieren barely feels it against his numb skin, but it still makes the butterflies rise in his stomach just like it had all those quiet nights in the den. It's over too soon, and suddenly he's watching Rick's back retreating through the trees.

So he starts the long walk home, stiff limbs carrying him as his brain re-enacts all the sensations he missed, marching to fond memories of an eager heart thrumming like a hummingbird's wings.

* * *

He didn't mean to stop on the way home. But something about the sign had just struck a chord, and before he even knew he was moving he was already through the door.

The Save 'N Shop is just as bleak as he remembers it. Cold, off-white, slightly grimy and definitely cheap. But neither that, nor the scared and hostile looks from the shoppers knocks him from his stride. This place is important, he knows it.

As he rounds another corner into an all too familiar aisle, he knows. He's seen this scene before, in his nightmares. They really scrub up nice around here- not even a trace of the poor girl's blood.

He feels sick as he walks to the scene of the crime, but he can't break away now. Not until he finds it, that niggling feeling, that one tiny but oh-so important fact that's evaded him for so long. If he can just  _see…_

He's standing right there now, right on the spot he'd been standing that night. There's the shelf where he'd cracked her skull, there's the gash in the vinyl that had filled with blood. He wants to throw up, even though there's literally nothing in his stomach to discharge.

The memory is so vivid here, it's like watching the whole scene play out in slow motion. But there's something different now- a new layer, a new perspective, and with it the ending he'd always been missing.

Lisa was his last kill. And that was because when he killed her, he was cornered. Cornered by one of the HVF, a girl in uniform. A terrified girl. Her hair was longer, bright red, she was wearing more eye make-up than she used to. But he knew those eyes, knew that soft face behind the hard lines of rage and terror.

"Jem…"

* * *

"What're you doin' here?"

He doesn't even flinch at the abrasive tone- he understands it, now more than ever. "You were there. The night Lisa…"

"The night  _you_ killed her," Jem says through gritted teeth, steely eyes staring him down across the room.

"I'm sorry," he says, even though he knows how useless that is now.

"I'm not the one you should be apologising to," she says grimly, glancing at her wall and the photo she stares at every night- the photo of her with a familiar dark-haired, dark-skinned girl on their way to patrol, grinning like they both have their whole lives ahead of them.

"Yeah, you are," Kieren insists, taking another step into the room. "Obviously you're not the only one, but I hurt you, too."

Jem doesn't agree, but she doesn't argue. When it doesn't look like he's going to be kicked out or shot in the head, he takes the last few steps and sinks down onto the bed, sitting a respectful distance from her as he fiddles anxiously with his sleeves.

"I should've stayed, or at least told yeh I was going," he says, not looking at her. "If I'd have stayed… I don't know how much it would've solved, but things would be different. You wouldn't have spent all the time worrying 'bout me, you wouldn't have had to watch me…"

His vision once again turns to blood and screaming, and he gulps back nausea as his eyes flutter closed. "I'm sorry," he chokes out once more, hands clasped tightly on his knees and wishing he could reach out and hold her. He's missed her so much- his annoying, wonderful little sister. His Jem.

"'S my fault, too,"

He looks up, and she looks as scared as he feels. "I could've stopped it. I could've stopped  _you,_ but…"

She shrugs, and when she meets his gaze there's something happy, something that could almost be forgiveness under the pain. "I couldn't shoot my big brother. Rabid rotter or not."

He matches her smile, and his heart feels a little lighter. "'Preciate it."

They share a smile, uneasy but hopeful, and it's barely a shadow of what they had before but it's a start. He owes her so many explanations, so many stories, and one day soon he's going to make sure she knows everything- she deserves that much. She'll be asking the questions herself soon enough- he already sees her gaze wandering to the scar on his wrist, and though she's probably worked out where it came from she deserves to hear the words from his own mouth.

But not today. Today, there's something else he has to do. "I'm goin' to talk to 'em. Lisa's parents. May get me shot in the head, but they need to know what happened to their daughter."

Jem nods. "I'm coming with yer."

He doesn't argue.

* * *

"I'm proud of yeh," she smiles, ponytail swinging at her back as she walks.

"What for?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"For tellin' 'em," she shrugs, bumping his shoulder lightly. "And for givin' them hope."

"Hope?" he asks incredulously. "They didn't listen, Jem- they have no idea. Lisa… after what I did, there's no way she's…"

"I know that," Jem says, glowering at him. "But they don't. And I'm glad you let 'em keep it that way."

"They'll be waiting forever, Jem," he says quietly, hands in his pockets. "I don't see how that's preferable."

"It's  _hope_ , dickhead," she says, rolling her eyes. "Can't beat it, eh?"

 _Hope._ God, he's sick of that word. Seems to be getting thrown around a lot these days, mostly in his own head. But as short-sighted as it seems, as downright stupidly optimistic and ridiculous, he wonders if the Lancaster's really have taken ignorance and made it into bliss. Is this hope, this blind optimism that one day their daughter may come home, really making their lives any easier?

Then again, he's not exactly one to talk. The person he's missing, the answers he's looking for, maybe they really are just a phone call away. But is he ready to hear the answer?

_Let's face it- right now, you're no better than them._

"Well, whatever," he says, trying to distract himself from his own grim train of thought. "I'm just glad to have my little sister back," he smiles at her, nudging her back.

"Y'know, technically I'm nearly twenty and you're still eighteen," she quips, smirking at him. "Guess that makes  _you_ the 'little' one!"

He laughs, almost stumbling on his clumsy feet. "Shit, yer my big sister- that's something I'm never gonna get used to!"

For a moment it's just like old times- the two of them walking and laughing, carefree in each other's presence, no complications. It's a little too perfect- something has to go wrong at any minute.

Sure enough, as they cover the crest of the hill and the train station comes into view, a familiar figure catches his eye. Jem comes to the same realisation. "Is that-?" she begins, eyes widening.

"Yeah, it is," Kieren says, frowning as he picks up his pace. "What's she up to?"

"Better check on 'er," Jem says, matching his stride.

He looks at her, surprised. "You're coming, too?"

"'Course," she says, grimacing. "I know we've had some tough times, but she's my friend, too."

He nods, turning back ahead to the image of the distant figure. "Okay. Yeah, good. We'll check on her before we go home- make sure she's all right."

"Better make it quick," Jem jokes, recovering from her moment of empathy. "Wanna get home in time for yer bedtime story, lil' bro!"

He laughs as they jog side by side down the hill, shaking his head. "Dick!"

* * *

Roarton feels quiet without Amy there, brightening all their days with a laugh and a smile. Still, they survived a whole lifetime without her before, they can do it again.

Then again, Kieren was never undead and ostracized by the community before, either.

No denying things are tough. He's still an outcast, he still gets poisonous looks and threats, but he keeps out of it, hides himself away. Hardly ideal, but you do what you've got to do.

He does have two things to be happy about, keep him trudging on when it would be very easy to just collapse into bed and never get up again.

First off, there's Jem. Amy and Lisa are gone now, and Jem's given up her patrols with the straggling remains of the HVF. If there was ever a chance to make everything up to her, it's this. It's time spent together- on the couch playing videogames or in her room listening to music- that make up the first steps of rebuilding the bridge. Their relationship has suffered more wear and tear than any brother-sister bond should be able to survive, but he's optimistic. These aren't exactly normal circumstances, and they aren't exactly regular siblings.

And then there's Rick.

It's like being fourteen again, being with Rick. They meet in the forest when Rick's supposed to be patrolling, they talk and joke and laugh and kiss, and it's heady and giddy and amazing.

Or at least, that's what he tells himself.

Honestly, he's made such a fuss about Rick in the past- tied up so much of his life and his pain and his happiness in him, spent so many nights pining for him.

When you've devoted so much of yourself to a person, or even the  _idea_  of a person, it's hard to admit when they don't make you happy.

"Kier?"

He looks up with a start, and realises that his character's dead and scattered to pieces on the screen. "Oh, yeah," he mutters, clicking 'continue'.

Jem watches him like a hawk, eyes narrowing. "What's wrong with you?"

"Charming," Kieren grumbles, ignoring her good-natured swat to his arm. "Nothin', I'm fine."

"Yeah, right," she mutters, but wisely lets it drop. They're halfway through the next battle before either of them speak again.

"Jem?"

She briefly glances at him, barely tearing her gaze from the game. "Yeah?"

"What day was it?" he asks quietly, guiltily. "When I left?"

It's a sore subject, but Jem answers. "Last I saw yeh was in the morning- November the sixth."

He nods slowly, the date ringing a bell. He remembers now, why he picked that day after months of silent grieving to finally do something. The day before had been November the fifth. "Remember, remember…" he murmurs to himself, fireworks dancing across his mind.

It had been so loud that night- the whole village had turned out, food and laughter abounded, everyone had a place, had a person to talk to. Except him.

He remembers losing his parents and Jem in the crowd. He remembers retreating to the quietest patch of grass he could find, away from the kids with sparklers and the parents setting up picnic blankets on the field, and sat down with his face to the sky. For a little while he'd just watched the stars, drawing a strange sense of calm from their steady glow, pinpricks of light in the darkness.

And then the fireworks show had begun.

They were beautiful, vibrant, dazzling, but that didn't matter. Because all he knew, all he could hear, was the sound of the explosions miles above his head, echoing around the hollows of his skull hauntingly. He remembered coming to this show with Rick, sneakily holding hands whenever they managed to separate from their families. He thought about Rick and where he was now, and what had happened to him.

And suddenly the fireworks weren't beautiful anymore. Because all he could think about were those explosions, and how they must be little like the last sound Rick had ever heard.

That night was the reason he went to the cave. The reason he made it halfway to ending it all before deciding at the last minute to get up and walk it off somewhere else. He'd almost lost his life over that thought, that one crippling moment of grief. In the end, the last straw on his proverbial camel's back had been Rick's loss, and he'd damn near given up everything for it.

How could this man- his best friend, his love, the man he'd spent a long time thinking of as his soulmate, to whom he'd devoted his life and soul - be anything but the answer, the endgame, the person he wants and needs the most? After everything, how can he admit to himself that maybe this isn't what he wants after all?

He loves Rick. Loves him with all his cold, dead heart.

But he doesn't love sneaking around, hiding who and what they are from the people they call their friends and family.

He doesn't love keeping his wits about him as they kiss, lest someone walk in and see them.

He doesn't love being belittled, invalidated, put down by Bill Macy and his lackeys, and feeling his heart break as Rick doesn't say a word.

He meant what he said in the car that night- he doesn't blame Rick anymore. It's not his fault he has a father like Bill, and it's not his fault that he has to hurt other people as much as himself just to fit in. But sometime over the last few years, sometime over that strange month in late 2009, he'd realised something. Something that filled him with guilt as much as pride, and sadness as much as peace.

Somewhere down the road, he'd realised that he deserved better.

What he has with Rick had been fine when they were teenagers, still awkward and inexperienced, when they hadn't known anything better. It had hurt, hiding in the shadows, keeping what they had a dirty little secret. But he'd just figured that's what love was- it hurt and it made you feel like shit, but it was always there so you didn't care. You would sit in the flames and let them burn, knowing the oasis is just on the other side and thinking that was close enough.

How can he possibly go back to that now that he knows it doesn't have to be that way? That love can be balanced, can be restorative, and even the messy, crazy kind can leave you feeling whole and at peace. That love doesn't have to be a whole new trunk load of bullshit to lug around on your back, and can just be someone else taking a handle and helping you carry what you already have. It may not be elegant or earth-shattering, it doesn't have to be Romeo and Juliet- star-crossed lovers, willing to go to war, willing to kill, willing to _be_ killed just to be together. It doesn't have to be pain and complications, or big tangled destinies, written in the stars.

He'd been willing to die for Rick Macy once- willing to take his own life so he wouldn't have to live it without him.

But for Simon Monroe, he'd been willing to  _live._

Their short little life together hadn't been glamourous or Hollywood-worthy. It hadn't been an eyes-meeting-across-a-crowded-room spark, their love hadn't been blinding or radiant, although it had led to some very dramatic heart-to-hearts in the rain. It had even been painful, sometimes- seeing Simon shuddering through drug withdrawal, feeling him growing weaker, all those vehement arguments with his father over his wellbeing. But though the pain was there, it hadn't defined them. Thought the love was there, it hadn't consumed them.

And at the end of the day, even when he'd been sleeping on a cold park bench, being with Simon had always felt…  _safe._ There was trust, there. It wasn't one-sided, or ill-founded. He'd trusted Simon not to leave him, just as Simon had trusted him not to let him fall.

And even though it didn't turn out the way they'd wanted, twisted and crushed on the road to their fresh start, they had kept their promises to the letter.

He feels his heart shatter a little further with every round he plays with Jem, until he finally musters up the courage he needs to go to the phone. He dials the number he knows by heart, and prays that he's home and he won't have to talk to-

"Hello?"

Oh, thank God. "Rick," he says softly, tapping his fingers on the handset nervously.

"Ren?" Rick asks, sounding confused. "What's up? Still seein' yeh tonight, yeah?"

"Actually," Kieren says, guilt twisting in his stomach. "I wondered if we could bring it forward."

"Somethin' wrong?"

"I just need to talk to you," Kieren murmurs, the rhythm of his fingers on the plastic growing faster and more frantic.

"Yeah, okay," Rick says, and Kieren can't shake the guilty feeling that he knows, somehow. "I can be there in an hour."

* * *

" _I'm sorry, Rick, I just…"_

_Shoulders hunched, eyes turned down, jaw set like he already knows what's coming. "What, Ren?"_

"… _I just don't think I can do this, anymore."_

He'd left the house at half four, but it's nearly midnight when he stumbles back in, eyes prickling and out of breath. He'd spent so long putting it off, changing the subject, desperately trying to find the courage to say what needed to be said. Now that it's done, now that's it out there and there's no taking it back, he doesn't know what to feel. Relief? Anguish? Should he try to undo it, try and pretend today never happened?

_His jaw tightens, his nod is sharp and his voice terse. "All right."_

He hadn't argued- maybe he'd always known this was coming…

_He nods his own head, guilt twisting in his stomach. "Okay."_

It would have been easier if he'd fought. Maybe it would have made up his mind for him- maybe it would have convinced him to take it back, maybe it would have scared him and he'd know that he made the right decision.

_His eyes are hard, but his smile is genuine. "Still mates, though, yeah?"_

Kieren tears up the stairs, unmindful of his father's worried face from the couch where he must have been waiting up for him all night. He can't take more guilt right now.

" _Yeah," he nods, relief twisting with pain in his gut. "Still mates…"_

When he reaches his room, when he collapses onto the bed and curls into himself, he gives in. His shoulders shake with sobs, his arms wrap around his chest to squash down the hollowness within. For the next few hours until he falls asleep, he cries without having a single tear left to shed.

* * *

He expected to wake up feeling used up, hollowed out and torn apart.

But for the first time in both his lives, what his mum used to say about things looking better in the morning actually rings true.

It still hurts- voluntarily tearing out a piece of your own heart will do that to you- but it's not crippling. It's a dull ache, and though the wound is raw it's no longer oozing, his soul draining with each passing minute. With time it'll heal, and fortunately for him he's got plenty of that on his hands these days.

Now, feeling the pain of loss he knows so well muted, slowed down to an imperceptible crawl, he knows he's done the right thing. Rick may not thank him- Hell, he still wouldn't thank himself- but it had to be done. They couldn't have carried on, not living in this damn town. Not while Bill's still making Rick's life Hell, and not while Kieren can't keep his mind off a certain Irish ex-addict who'd turned his short life around.

He looks to the painting on the wall, that beloved face without the scars, and hopes that Rick meant what he said. He may not want to be with him anymore, but he doesn't want to lose the best friend he's ever had.  _Well,_ he thinks, looking at the drawing on his wall of a smiling Amy.  _Best but one._

A tentative knock draws his attention, and he opens the door to find Jem leaning on the frame.

_Okay. Best but two._

"Mornin'," she greets, looking him up and down. "Late night?"

"You don't know the half of it," he says grimly, opening the door wider in invitation.

"Do I wanna know?" she asks, flopping onto the edge of his bed.

"Probably not," he shrugs, sitting beside her. He knows he'll have to tell her sometime, but that's another one for the confession pile.

"Fair enough," she grunts, kicking the bed frame with her heels. She reaches into her pocket, pulling out a crumpled piece of card. "Got a postcard- from Amy."

He grins, taking the card and scanning the looping script fondly.

_'Ello, 'ello, Walkers!_

_Just thought I'd drop you a line- I'm sure you're all dying to know how I'm settling in! It's nice here- little squalid, but we're all peasants round these parts, I wasn't expecting five stars! The people are lovely, including my dashing fiancé (okay, he's not my fiancé yet, but don't you worry, I'll wear 'im down!) Still, I arrived safe and sound and did not get mugged, shot or stabbed, so basically I'm absolutely peachy- no idea what you were both so worried about!_

_Heaps of hugs,_

_Amy xxx_

"Wow," he smiles, handing it back. "Sounds like things are going great!"

"Think I'm gonna call her later," Jem says, tapping the phone number scrawled beneath the message. "Hearing it in writing's all well and good, but I don't think yeh really know until you've heard someone's voice whether they're doing okay."

"You're going above and beyond," he smirks as she stands up.

"Shut up," she grumbles, rolling her eyes. "She helped me out a lot- I'm not made o' stone."

"No, you're not," he says, face softening. "She's lucky to have yeh as a friend, Jem."

She turns back to him, eyes narrowing. "You feeling all right?"

He chuckles, musing on how one rough night can really change your whole perspective on things. "I'm fine. Just… thinking."

"Oh, great- that never ends well," she snorts, flinging open the door. "Well, when yeh feel like crawling outta that mess in your head for a few minutes I'll be playing  _Halo_. Feel free to come down so I can kick yer arse again."

As the door swings shut behind her, the smile falls from his lips. He stands up, paces, thinks about the number scratched on the card and what Jem might hear when she rings it.

His pacing brings him to the desk, to the sketchbooks at varying stages of age and progress, to the scrap of lined notebook paper with a familiar name and number scribbled. It had taken a while, but if someone's in the phonebook you can damn sure bet that they'll be online somewhere. He'd written it down three weeks ago, and still it remained untouched on his desk, those six letters scratched into the page and into his memory.

_Monroe_

It had taken some time to narrow it down, but he's now sure that that number is indeed the Monroe family he's looking for. Their address has changed, they must have moved, but he just  _knows_.

What he doesn't know is what he might find out when he dials it.

What does he say, if he picks up and Simon's dead? If he never came back? How do you talk to the parents of someone you died with, knowing that you came back and their son didn't?

What does he say if Simon  _is_  there? Does he even want Simon to  _see_ him like this- cold, dead, looking back at him with lenses on his eyes to hide the blank white stare? What could he possibly say?  _Oh, sorry my dragging you back to my house got us both killed, but not to worry- now we get to live long, full second lives as undead monsters and outcasts in society with a possibility of early death by lynching thrown in!_

He stares at the paper, like he has done every single day for three weeks.

Then, with a heavy sigh and his eyes shut, he brushes it off the table and onto the floor.

_No. I don't want to know. Better to keep him as he is- an idea, a possibility that could or could not be real. Better to keep him alive in my head, than risk finding out that he's gone for good._

Maybe he's not as different from Lisa's parents as he thought.

* * *

For a few weeks, it's almost like things fall back into some kind of strange normality.

He plays games with Jem, watches films with his dad, helps his mum with the washing up. It's almost like nothing's changed.

He hasn't seen Rick in a while. He misses him, but perhaps it's for the best. Bill was getting antsy about them being together so much anyway. And with what happened last time they talked… no, it's better this way. They both need space, need room to recover.

It's a Saturday afternoon, a quiet day in the early spring, when he finally decides it's time to come clean. He feels safer now, feels like things are returning to the way they were. He can't put it off forever- better to tell them about it now, when they're all used to him, all feeling charitable towards him.

And so, when they are all settled around the table and a hush has fallen, he prepares to tell them all about November 2009.

Unfortunately, he hasn't got much further than 'it all started on bonfire night' when the phone rings. Sue, irritation etched on her face, gets up to answer it.

"Kier?"

He looks over to her, and she holds out the phone, irritation replaced with concern.

"It's Rick, love."

He frowns, taking the handset and walking into the living room, just to get a little further from his family's curious ears. "Rick?"

"Hey, Ren. You doin' anything, at the moment?"

"I was just about to…" he trails off. There's something in Rick's tone, and he just knows that whatever it is, it's important. "Y'know what, it can wait a while- what's goin' on?"

Silence on the line. And then, hesitantly, strain in his voice, a single question.

"How quick can yeh get to the station?"

* * *

"You sure this is what yeh want, Rick?"

Rick nods, squinting in the sun. "Yeah. Always wanted to get the fuck out of 'ere- seems like as good a time as any, eh?"

Kieren nods numbly, still dumbstruck. Rick's leaving. He doesn't know where he's going, or what he's doing, but he's getting out of here. "Rick, I don't want yeh to leave just 'cause of…"

' _Cause of what I said to you. Don't leave because I can't be with you anymore. Don't leave because seeing me is too much, because you can't stand to be near me after what happened._

"I'm not, Ren," Rick says kindly, grimacing. "Believe it or not, I have other reasons to want out of this bloody town."

Yes, of course he does. He's always wanted to get out, he even managed it once- even if it wasn't exactly what he was hoping for. Now that they're not together, now that it's over and he's back and he's got his new life, why shouldn't he move on?

"Just wanted to see yeh one more time," Rick says, shrugging. "'Sides, you gave me Hell last time I left without sayin' anything. Thought the least I could do was say goodbye this time."

"Yeah," Kieren says, smiling slightly. "Thanks."

For a few minutes it's quiet, neither of them knowing what to say. How do you say goodbye to the person who used to be your entire world? How do you tell them you'll miss them without confusing things further, giving false hope or mixed signals?

But as the clack of a train approaching on iron tracks breaks the silence, Kieren temporarily throws caution to the wind. It's Rick, after all.

"I'll miss you," he murmurs.

Rick nods slowly, shouldering his backpack. "Yeah, I'll miss you too…"

They stare at each other, drinking each other in for possibly the last time as the train creaks to a halt at Rick's back.

"Well," Rick says, forcing a cheerful grin onto his face. "S'pose that's my cue."

"Yeah," Kieren breathes, dragging a smile onto his own face. "Look after yerself, Rick- don't do anythin' I wouldn't do!"

Rick nods, stepping through the waiting door. Once inside he stops by an open window, leaning out slightly to give one last parting grin.

It's an awful goodbye. It's stilted, it's false, it feels like they're both lying through their teeth. Just another disappointing event in a very long string of disappointing events.

Things may not be like they were, but it's  _Rick_. He can't go just like that, with false smiles and empty platitudes.

And so, because he'll probably never do it again, because it may be the last chance he has, because they didn't get to do this the last time they parted, Kieren strides forward to the window. He leans up, grabs Rick by the collar to pull him down, and crashes their lips together in one last kiss, pouring all his goodbyes into the contact.

And as he feels a strong hand go to the back of his head, feels another bunching in the fabric of his shirt, he knows that Rick is trying to do the same.

When they break apart it's because they must, the slow hiss and slide of the train starting up jolting them away from each other, widening the distance inch by torturous inch.

They both remain stock still, unable to do anything but watch as they slip out of each other's lives once again, this time not out of cruel fate or poor communication but simply because the time has come to move on.

Kieren smiles, raising his hand to wave at the rapidly shrinking figure.

And even from further down the track, even across the ever-growing distance, he can see Rick return the gesture.

He waits until long after the train is out of view to turn his back on the tracks.

He waits for the grief to knock him to his knees, braces himself for the wave of sadness as he realises that Rick's gone again, maybe for good.

It never comes.

In fact, as he slowly makes the walk home, he even feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

_Rick is alive. He isn't here, but he's alive._

_Rick is moving on. He has a new life, and he's going to live it._

_Rick is free. He's breaking away from Bill, from this town, from everything that made his life Hell._

He grins, his quick steps slowly turning into a run, clumsy feet scuffing the ground as he goes. He doesn't even care about the damage he must be doing to his boots, or how he must look to everyone else. He doesn't have any room left in him to care.

_Rick's alive._

_Rick's moving on._

_Rick's free._

He thinks about his family, waiting patiently at home to hear his story. He doesn't intend to disappoint them. As he runs, the wind in his hair and a stupid smile on his face, he doesn't realise until he's halfway home that he changed the words of his mantra.

I'm  _alive._

He thinks of his sister, and the relationship they are just beginning to rebuild. Of the new sketchbook on his table waiting to be filled.

I'm  _moving on._

He thinks about the phone number, the one he could call at any point. Maybe he never will.

The beauty of it?

The choice is his to make.

_I. Am. Free._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. Now THAT was a rollercoaster.
> 
> As you can see, a lot of things have changed this time around- and as you have possibly already guessed, I like to avert death whenever possible. Well, permanent death, at least. I'm all about temporary, emotionally wracking but ultimately harmless death, as you well know. I'm gonna go ahead and write a few notes I have about my presentation of events here, feel free to ignore if you can't be asked xD
> 
> 1: Bill didn't tell Rick to kill Kier in this version because Kier wasn't there when they were hunting rabids, standing in front of guns and generally causing dissent and upset in the ranks. He still hates him, but not enough to put out a hit out on him. As for what happened with those two rabids in the woods, whether they were shot in this version of events or whether Rick actually tried to prevent it... well, I'll leave that up to you to decide :)
> 
> 2: I don't know how you felt about my version or the Rick/Ren reunion, but it's how I felt it needed to go. In the original, there was a lot of resentment harbored on both sides, but I like to think that in my version of events Kieren had had some time to grow out of it. I do not think for a second that his suicide (or in this case attempted suicide) was 100% to do with Rick. I think Kieren was already struggling with depression, probably not getting much help for it either, and he probably got picked on a lot by people in their village. I think when Rick left it just threw him even further, and when Rick died... well, as he says, last straw and all that. I know he didn't really say it in such explicit terms, but I felt like the topic of his depression needed to be at the very least mentioned before this story ended.
> 
> 3: I do prefer the Siren relationship to Rickren, but while I think the Rickren relationship was very unhealthy in many ways and did absolutely nothing for either Rick or Ren's self-esteem, I can't honestly blame that on either of them. Sometimes I think about them and want to be angry with Rick, but then I realise that's pretty victim-blame-y. Its not Rick's fault he's had to grow up with Bill fucking Macy as a dad, nor is it his fault that he's also lived in a very small and intolerant environment for most of his life. I hate that he often ends up hurting Ren, but I don't blame him, at least not completely. It's a sucky, sucky situation to be in, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone. They did what they could, but I think as long as they were stuck in that place, with those people and with the lifelong scars left by that kind of treatment, I think it was always doomed. I hope that this time, even if they didn't end up together, I managed to give them both a happier ending. I didn't want this fic to end without giving Ren's v. important early formative relationship with Rick it's time, and I hope I did so to a reasonable quality and effectiveness. I'm sorry to say that you won't be seeing Rick again this fic, but at least everyone got to say goodbye :)
> 
> 4: And as for Kieren's memories, they are much better and clearer than Simon's because poor Si was in that treatment centre in the experimental stage, where the serum was still crude and probably not doing all that much for him, possibly even ruining certain parts of his brain even further. Sadly, there are still plenty of connections and neural pathways in his head that can't be fixed. Kieren had the fortune of being taken to the centre later, when a newer and more effective draft of the serum was in use.
> 
> Well, I think that's about it!
> 
> Can I just take a moment to say that I really, REALLY appreciate every single comment I get for this story, seriously, you really encourage me to keep going :D We're getting close to the end now, and I just want you all to know how awesome you are. Seriously. Pat yourself on the back. You done it? That was from me :)
> 
> Until next time! X


	19. Lifeline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we go- penultimate chapter, ooooh, exciting!
> 
> Very introspective chapter this time around- and I'm afraid you have a little bit longer to wait for our big joyful reunion, but what can I say, I love dragging all the mileage I can get out of pining and angst! Sorry 'bout all the song lyrics, but I love these songs and find them immensely fitting for Kieren and Simon's characters in this fic. Don't worry, not so much lyric quoting next chapter- mainly 'cause it's gonna be poetry, instead xD
> 
> Oh, and for any of you who may growing annoyed/cynical with all the frankly ridiculously unlikely coincidences in this fic... I really don't care, I love coincidences, I think they're magical and there aren't enough in real life so I must simply fill my fiction with them. Crazy, cosmic coincidences fill me with so much happiness that I don't even care if the realism suffers because of it- besides, I suppose in a way you could say this entire fic has been about fate from the get-go.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3 All the song lyrics in this chapter (and there are many) belong to the Shins- the songs are 'Simple Song' and 'Fall of '82' respectively.

"Don't worry, I'm fine- stop bein' such a nervous Nelly!" Amy laughs, shaking her head against the phone in her hand as Jem's gruffly concerned voice chatters in her ear. "I'll pop back to see yeh both sometime- missin' my BFFs! Anyway, I'll let yeh go- give a big hug to that moregeous brother o' yours for me! All right, bye!"

She hangs up, and immediately lets the smile drop.

Rick's gone. Skipped town, probably had the same idea she did. Good for him, to be honest- 'bout time he got away from that mental dad of his. Still, this does leave her with some rather tricky decisions to make concerning a certain Irish zombie.

Of course he was  _the_ Simon. Kieren's Simon, the elusive Simon No-Last-Name for whom her dearest BDFF had been pining for so long. Except now she knows that his last name is in fact Monroe, and though he's very much dead he is also very much still kickin'.

When she'd first figured it out, she'd been excited- this was her chance to reunite them, the star-crossed lovers of November 2009, this was the second chance they'd been searching for.

But then she'd remembered Rick.

She'd been getting calls from Jem- just checking in from time to time- and occasionally the youngest Walker put her big brother on the phone. He'd told her about how he'd made up with Rick, how they were back together, how weird and amazing it was to have things back the way they were. Although if her latest information from Jem is to be believed, she hadn't been imagining the hint of doubt in his tone because clearly it hadn't worked out the way he'd hoped.

Still, she hadn't wanted to make things more complicated for him at the time. She didn't want to drop his enigmatic ex-lover on his doorstep and leave him trying to choose between them both. She may not be Rick Macy's biggest fan, but she wanted to give him a fair chance. And as the time passed and she talked to both members of the whirlwind love affair separately, oblivious as they were to each other's survival, she'd started to question whether reuniting them would be the right thing to do.

Her inner hopeless romantic screams 'Yes! Do it! True love, an' all that! DO IT!', but caution still wins out. Kieren and Simon seem to have their lives on track at the moment- Si's got his duties in the commune, Kieren's rebuilding his relationship with his family and apparently considering applying to uni again, both of them seem to be moving on and putting the past behind them, where it belongs. She doesn't want to meddle with that, bring more drama into their lives than necessary.

Okay, that's a bullshit excuse. Love, when it's right, is worth the drama. But it's easier to make up logical-sounding excuses than to admit that maybe they just aren't ready to see each other. Especially not Simon. Poor Simon.

He's got better in his time with the ULA, taking their sermons to heart and striving to be the best he can be, to be proud of what he is. But he can't fool her. He's still scared of what he's become. Around the commune he walks round bare-faced, but he won't look at himself in the mirror. And when he talks to her about Kieren (which is basically every sodding day, by the way), he often expresses sad relief that at least he doesn't have to see him like this. And poor Kieren isn't much better- he lies to her over the phone, but she can hear it in his voice. It's the voice of a kid who hasn't found the courage to take the towel down from the mirror yet, the kid who wears his contacts at night and won't leave his room without at least twenty layers of cover-up. If neither of them can face up to  _themselve_ s yet, how in God's name will they face up to each other?

"Amy?"

She twirls round, plastering a smile onto her lips as she comes face to face with half of the problem. "Afternoon, Mymon!"

He chuckles, leaning his crutch against the wall and shucking off his bulky coat, draping it on one of the overburdened hooks by the door. She strolls over to him, smoothing down his windswept hair and noticing the paper bag he pulls from his coat pocket. "Been shoppin'?"

He shrugs, and she neatly swipes the package from his hands and peeks inside, frowning. "D'you even  _have_ a CD player here?"

"There's an old one up in the loft," he mumbles, watching her with sadness in his eyes as she inspects the album cover.

"Haven't seen yeh buy anything for yerself since I got here," she points out, raising her eyebrow. "What's the occasion?"

"No occasion, just…" he shrugs again, raising his hand to gently pry the album from her grip. "Just felt like I should listen to it."

"Bit of a shit name," she jokes, trying to lighten the mood. "'The Shins'? Whose idea was that?"

A small smile cracks through the gloom on his face. "I said the same thing, first time I saw it."

"When was that?" she prods gently, a hunch already forming about where this is going. He can tell where her mind has taken her, going from the knowing look on his face.

"2009," he murmurs, slipping the CD back into the bag as he confirms her suspicions.

"Well," she huffs quietly, patting his shoulder in a clumsy attempt to lighten the sombre mood. "Happy listening!"

He takes this as permission to leave, giving her a smile and a nod as he slopes away to his small shared upstairs bedroom. His roommates are out today, so he'll have some peace and quiet. She keeps the smile on her face right up until he disappears, only dropping the mask when he's completely out of sight. Unfortunately, that little exchange has done nothing to ease her fears.

There's not a doubt in her mind that poor Simon is still head-over-heels for Kieren Walker. She hates to see him like this- he puts on an easy demeanour and an approachable smile for the rest of the commune, but it's only when he thinks he's unobserved that his expression changes and he looks so adrift, like a little lost puppy. He's happy enough, satisfied in general with his new life and his new purpose, but sometimes he looks at the room around him and seems confused, saddened because the one thing he really wants to be there is still missing. All those little looks she catches make her want to just run to the phone and tell Kieren to get his pretty undead arse on the next train to the city.

But then there was  _Rick,_ and even now he's gone she doesn't know what happened, whether Kieren's ready to move on, whether he even still bloody  _likes_ Simon anymore having had another taste of his epic teenage romance. And even if they still like the  _idea_  of each other, who's to say they'll like what they find? Three years is a long time and a lot's happened since they knew each other, maybe it won't be quite like they remembered? Maybe they'll just make each other's lives that much more complicated and she'll regret ever sticking her nose in.

Yes, that's it. That's the whole reason- she doesn't want them to suffer. No selfishness involved whatsoever.

_Liar._

She groans, thumping her head lightly against the wall (although probably not as lightly as she would have if she could actually still feel it). She can spout all the selfless reasoning she likes, but in the end she has to consider the fact that she just plain doesn't want to go back to Roarton yet.

She'd love to see the Walkers, maybe have a chat with Shirley, but she's not sure she's ready to go back to that writhing can of worms she left behind with Philip and certain dickhead members of the HVF. And if Simon goes, she damn sure knows that she's going too- as well as him being her best friend at the commune, she also doesn't want to leave him travelling alone again. God knows he's done enough of that in his life already. And once he's there, with Kieren, it's where he's going to stay- Kieren won't come back with them, and Simon won't leave him again. Whether she stays or goes after that is her choice, but she doesn't like the idea of choosing between staying with her friends amongst trigger-happy lunatics or leaving them behind in favour of a safer, lonelier environment. It's not that she doesn't  _have_  other friends here- she's a cheerful person and people are drawn to that, she has no trouble making friends- but just… not like them. Not like the Walker siblings, or Simon. Who can compare?

What they have here at the moment is nice, secure. She and Simon are in a safe space surrounded by their own kind, they have each other and a role to play. Kieren's got his sister, his family, the very near possibility of a booming artistic career and precisely zero romantic troubles. Until she knows that the time is right, knows that they're both ready, knows that  _she's_  ready, knows that it can't be put off any longer… maybe it's best to just keep this balance.

All the same, guilt tugs her heartstrings as she hears the first notes of music trickle quietly down through the ceiling.

If that damn album is his sole connection to Kieren, she hopes it's a bloody good one.

* * *

 

" _Well this is just a simple song_

_To say what you done_

_I told you about all those fears_

_And away they did run_

_You sure must be strong_

_And you feel like an ocean being warmed by the sun."_

 

Kieren smiles, head on his hands as he reclines on his bed. The good part of dying and coming back to life is catching up on all the good stuff you've missed- including a brand new album by one of his favourite bands. Granted, it's technically just the original lead singer-songwriter with a new band under the same name at this point, but it fills him with happy nostalgia all the same.

" _Last ones were better, if yeh ask me."_

His smile widens and his eyes flutter closed, lulled by the music and the familiar voice in his head as he imagines all the critiques his favourite Irishman would be constructing. "'Course you'd say that- it's not as depressing this time round," he murmurs in response to his own thought, giggling as he imagines Simon's half-hearted glower. He rolls onto his side, arm flopping off the edge of the bed, followed by the sound of thin plastic rustling.

His eyes snap open and he looks down, coming face to face once again with the bag.

His mum had brought it to him a couple of days ago, having found it in the attic during their big spring clean (still for some reason called a 'spring clean' even though they were well into October). She'd told him what it was, and he hadn't worked up the courage to open it right away.

 

" _I know that things can really get rough_

_When you go it alone_

_Don't go thinking you gotta be tough_

_And bleed like a stone…"_

 

But now, with their music playing and fond memories in his head, he thinks the time is right.

He sits up, pulling the black bin bag with him. The label on the side simply reads 'Kieren'. Most likely when they'd received it- three years ago around the time of his funeral- neither of his parents had loved the idea of writing 'Kieren's Belongings from the Car Crash', or 'Kieren's Death Clothes'. They'd probably meant to throw it out, to be honest, but… well, they could get pretty sentimental. They hadn't even cleared out his room in all the time he was gone.

A familiar smell assaults him the second he makes the first tear in the plastic, and he sits reeling for a moment as he reminds himself that he is in fact at home on his own bed and  _not_ on a park bench in Manchester. He tentatively reaches in, and sure enough his fingers brush cool leather.

The jacket is exactly the way he remembers it. Scuffed, slightly grimy, two sizes too big and still musty with the scent of cigarette smoke in the lining. He's amazed that hasn't faded by now- but to be fair, it has been wrapped in airtight plastic all this time. Even though he was never particularly fond of the smell (even on his nights in the cave with Rick, the sneaky cigarettes had not been his favourite part of the deal), he holds it to his face and inhales deeply, eyes drifting shut. He remembers the last day he wore this, how they'd been in the taxi and halfway to the station before he'd even realised he'd left his hoodie at Simon's house. He remembers laughing about it to Simon, and seconds later feeling the heavy leather settle over his shoulders, the urge to keep him safe and warm as automatic as breathing to his strange new more-than-friend. He drapes it over his back again now, sighing as he feels the familiar weight even on his numb skin. He takes another deep breath of stuffy, homey-smelling air before diving back into the bag.

A t-shirt,  _Pink Floyd_ , cut to pieces. They must have had to do that to get it off him, either for resuscitation or just in the morgue. He'd loved this shirt. Used it as pyjamas most of the time, except that one day where he'd decided if he was going to have to wear Simon's clothes home he wanted to wear his favourites- maybe the comfort of them would outweigh the awkward nerves of standing before the family he'd abandoned while wearing a strange man's clothes. He forlornly puts the battered garment aside- maybe later he can ask mum if there's any chance of fixing it.

A few other assorted clothes- jeans, socks etc. - which he's not particularly bothered with. But he finds something beneath them, nestled at the bottom of the bag, and his breath hitches as he carefully lifts it out.

The cardboard sleeve is crumpled almost beyond recognition, and the record itself rattles around inside in little pieces. He pops open the side and shakes it out, allowing all the fragments to cascade onto his bedspread, a waterfall of jagged black shards all that remains. He feels an involuntary sob rise in his throat- he'd known there was no way it could have survived the crash, but the knowledge doesn't make seeing his special gift from Simon broken beyond repair any less crushing. He'd found the music depressing anyway, but he'd loved that record. Not because of the content, but because of the origins, and because Simon had loved it. He pushes the little shards around sadly, trying to vaguely rearrange them in their original circular pattern. Eventually he gives up, and instead turns his attention to the case.

It's full of angry creases, one of which is so deep that it's torn through, but maybe some of it can be straightened out. Besides, it hadn't exactly been in pristine condition when he'd first got it- the thing must have already been twenty years old by the time Simon bought it. Probably from the same year as the one Simon had owned once, the gift from his dad, the one he'd sold for drug money along with everything else apart from the clothes on his back.

His fingers worm under the crumpled edge of the outer flap, gently straightening out creases and working it open. He's never looked at this bit before- it was probably just more band photos and he'd been far too busy staring at Simon to pay anything else much attention. Now, with this battered sheet of cardboard and ink being one of his final remaining ties to the man he'd loved, it seems as good a time as any to appreciate his present fully.

He opens it out, eyes running for the first time over the double page spread of track listing, credits and band photos. Instantly his eyes are drawn to a scrawl in the bottom corner, black ink almost as ancient as the box itself.

_Simon_

_I know things have been tough for a while- but give us a chance and we'll try to help. You just need to let us in, son._

_Happy birthday._

_No. Fucking. Way._

His hands skim over the crumpled card, even more carefully and reverentially than before, a disbelievingly smile spreading across his face.

"Found your way home," he murmurs, a breathy laugh escaping his lips. "Fancy that."

The same one. The very same fucking album that Simon had received on his thirteenth birthday, listened to religiously for years, left behind on his ultimately disappointing overseas adventure and then finally sold to some pawn shop in his mid-twenties when he needed the money for something a little stronger to numb the pain. All those years, and somehow this album's been bought and sold so many times that it found itself displayed in that pokey little record store, right around the time they had met and made it their retreat. Simon hadn't just gifted him a plain old record, or even the idea of something that meant a lot to him. Completely unknowingly, he'd gifted him an actual piece of his life, his history, something he'd held close to his heart for almost ten years before he'd given up.

Kieren lifts up the crumpled sleeve, pressing it to his chest just like he had on that last day, and closes his eyes.

"Thank you," he breathes, his words mingling in the air with the swelling music and the smoky scent that just sings of Simon.

His eyes flutter open once more, and determination sets his features. He stands up and sets to work, music still dancing in his ears.

 

" _Remember walking a mile to your house_

_Aglow in the dark…"_

 

He spreads the sleeve open on the floor, weighing it down with heavy books and jars in the hopes of flattening out the worst creases. He'll see to the tears later. With the cardboard set and nothing more he can do to it he sweeps his desk clear, loose papers drifting to the floor in a flurry of white, sketchbooks flung unceremoniously onto his bed.

 

" _I made a fumbling play for your heart_

_And the act struck a spark…"_

 

With his workspace clear he gathers up the record fragments, careful not to miss any pieces. He flops down in his desk chair and spreads them out, and begins the long, arduous process of rearranging them into some imitation of their original shape.

 

" _You wore a charm on a chain that I stole_

_Especial for you…"_

 

It'll never work again, he knows that much. No way a fragmented vinyl, held together with craft glue, tape and wishful thinking will ever be anything but decorative. But right now that doesn't matter. He's not going to leave it like this with all the pieces scattered. It'll always be broken, but that doesn't mean it can't be whole.

 

" _Love's such a delicate thing that we do_

_With nothing to prove_

_Which I never knew."_

 

Besides, he's learned to appreciate the beauty in broken things.

* * *

 

" _You moved back in with us in the fall of '82_

_I fell into dark times and you were there to help me through_

_You told me that a downturn would eventually improve_

_And you were right, so I'm thanking you."_

 

He misses Kieren. He misses his smile, and his drawing, he even misses his depressing hipster music.

" _You're one to talk 'bout depressing music, Smiths guy."_

Why is it that he can picture his voice perfectly in his head, can even construct fucking  _sentences_ from memory, but he can't remember anything that would be even remotely useful in finding him? God must be having a good laugh at his expense.

Maybe this is just going to be his life now. Maybe second chances are just doomed to disappointment. Maybe he'll just live out his indeterminate new lifespan as a shadow of his former self, never quite recovering what he's lost. That's a depressing thought, but sadly a very realistic sounding one.

He shouldn't be listening to this. It'll just make things worse, just make the pain even harder to bear. He should be trying to forget about Kieren, trying to move on as best he can.

But suppose Kieren's gone, suppose he's not coming back- how disappointed would he be to know his favourites released a new album and he never got to hear it?

Like it or not, it's Simon's job to hear it for both of them, now. Hey, maybe that way he'll have something to talk about if they happen to meet in the afterlife. Well, the  _other_ afterlife, if such a thing exists. He's not so sure anymore.

"Knock, knock!"

"You could just knock," he grimaces, turning to face Amy where she hovers in the doorway. "You don't actually have to  _say_ 'knock, knock', kind of defeats the purpose."

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. "Unbelievable- you can even be pedantic about bloody  _knockin'_!"

 

" _So won't you listen to me now_

_There's something I never told you_

_And I'm about to try_

_See you were my lifeline when the world was exploding."_

 

He smiles, smoothing his hair and turning the volume down slightly on the CD player. "What can I do for yeh, Amy?"

She shrugs. "Just checkin' up on yer," she smiles, leaning her head against the doorframe. "You seemed a little glum earlier."

"I'm fine," he says unconvincingly, forcing a calm smile onto his lips.

She raises her eyebrow, sceptical. "Sure 'bout that?"

She could always read him like a book. He sighs, sinking down onto the edge of the bed.

"Just frustrated," he says quietly, hand reaching up to trace the still raw scar on his face. "Still can't remember anything useful, can't even remember his fuckin' last name, startin' to wonder if he even existed…"

She observes him sadly from the doorway, chewing her lip quietly. He shakes himself out of it, standing up once more on legs that feel a hundred years older than the rest of him.

"Sorry," he mumbles apologetically, leaning on the windowsill and staring out into the bleak grey sky, not meeting her gaze. "Don't mean to go on about 'im so much…"

She nods wordlessly, shrugging away from the wall and turning to walk out. Not like her to leave without saying anything, but he understands- after weeks of emptily optimistic platitudes, what more can she say on this subject, really?

She hesitates halfway down the hall, and he sees her hands tighten on her upper arms, sees her head bow for a moment.

"…Fuck it."

He blinks, confused- did she just mutter 'fuck it' under her breath? Or did he imagine it?

She spins round, marching straight back towards his room and once again planting herself in the doorway.

"Actually," she says, tapping her foot. "I was thinking of heading home for a bit- just a little trip back to the old hometown, little pilgrimage. Not that I don't love my new undead pals, but I do so miss my dearest BFFs."

He's surprised- from what he'd heard, that town was anything but kind to her after she came back without a pulse, and it hadn't been winning any awards even before then. But he understands her wanting to see her friends- she's constantly singing their praises. So he smiles and nods, tapping his fingers on the windowsill. "That's great, Amy- just be careful, yeah?"

A note of disappointment creeps into his voice, which he tries hard to quash. He's not going to stop her going home if she wants to- even if he's going to miss her terribly. At least he's used to missing people, now.

"I was actually wondering if…" she shrugs, looking down at her feet as she scuffs her toes across the floor. "You wanted to tag along, maybe?"

"Really?" he asks, frowning. Why would she want him there?

"Yeah, really," she smiles. "Lil' daytrip, just the two of us. Clear our heads, take in that clean country air! What d'you think?"

It's tempting. He'd have to leave instructions here, though, make sure everyone's all right for a few days- he may not be a disciple, but he has his duties, has people relying on him. But the more he thinks about it, the more appealing it sounds. Maybe he needs to break away for a bit, maybe staying cooped up in here is doing nothing for his mood or his rusty memories. Who knows, maybe some fresh air and some sightseeing might loosen him up, get the mental juices flowing.

He matches her smile. "Sounds great," he says truthfully, bending over stiffly to retrieve his backpack from under the bed. "We'll have to check with the others, make sure Julian's okay taking care of things here for a bit-"

"Oh, don't worry, I can take care of that," she beams, bouncing excitedly on the spot. "You just get yerself packed and get a good night's sleep- we can set off in the morning!"

"Done," he chuckles, pulling open his drawer and folding up a few clothes (plenty of jumpers). "You gonna call your friends, let 'em know we're on our way?"

"Will do," she says, and there's a twinkle in her eye. "I'll have her meet us tomorrow!"

"What's her name, again?" he asks absentmindedly, busy trying to decide whether he folds up Kieren's hoodie alongside his own clothes or whether that's a little  _too_  clingy and pathetic.

"Jem," she says, voice measured. "Jem Walker."

 

" _October chill in that old dusty town…"_

 

He stands up, whirling to face her, eyes wide. "Walker?"

She nods, and his head spins.

_Walker. Roarton. Jem._

 

" _Halloween came, I was still feeling down…"_

 

"She has a brother," Amy says, beaming. "Reckon you guys'll get along like a house on fire!"

"What's his name?" Simon rasps, unaware that he's holding his useless breath.

Her lips twitch, and she backs into the hall.

 

" _Mama, lost my sweet tooth, what's the point in going round?..."_

 

"Kieren," she says, and his stomach drops. "His name's Kieren."

She spins round and walks away, stomping down the stairs in search of Julian, leaving him with nothing but his thoughts and the quiet music in the air.

He sinks down, back sliding down the wall until he flops to the floor, legs that are no longer willing to support him stretched across the patchy carpet.

 

" _Your boy is losing count…"_

 

_Kieren Walker._

"Kieren Walker," he rolls the name off his tongue, savouring the perfect feel of it on his lips. It's the name. It's  _his_ name. Kieren Walker from Roarton; artist, wannabe punk, Van Gogh enthusiast, sarcastic little shit, perfect doe-eyed bundle of snark and misery.

 

" _Maybe try the lost and found."_

 

He's alive.

* * *

It's not the first time in either of his lives that he's found himself losing a staring match with a phone. It's a frustrating tradition, and one he'd hoped had left town along with Rick Macy.

So far Kieren's day has basically been a montage of pacing, muttered cursing and obsessively unfolding and refolding the tiny sheet of notebook paper in his hand- it's got to the point where all he has to do to fold it is drop it and simply let it fall in along its limp, over-pressed creases. Several times he's thrown the paper down and stomped to the stairs, fully intending to take his mind off it with a few rounds of  _Halo_ with his sister. Every single time he's made it a few steps down (so far three is his record) only to walk right back up and resume his pacing.

He knows what the endgame will be. This is the day. He is calling that number today whether he likes it or not- if it doesn't happen today then it never will. He doesn't know why he's so certain of that, but he is. Today is the day.

It's been so easy over the last month to keep Simon Monroe as a strange, distant idea in his mind. Aside from his memories, there really was no solid proof he'd ever even existed, and in a way that made it easier to put off calling his family.

He can't think that way anymore, though. Not while the evidence of his existence is draped over his shoulders, or lying on his desk while the glue sets the broken shards together. With so much of him scattered around, it's impossible to pretend that number doesn't exist.

No. He's calling him. He's finding out, once and for all.

He's calling him. Right…

Now.

…Or in a minute.

_No! Calling him._

He stomps his foot, grits his teeth, reaches for the phone on his bedspread where it had fallen the last time he'd thrown it aside.

It rings before he can even touch it.

Torn between frustration and relief at the interruption, it takes him a moment to remember that he's not lying low anymore and he can answer the phone now. He picks it up, yelling a quick 'I've got it!' down the stairs before he receives the call.

"Hello?"

"Evenin', Handsome!"

Boy, is that voice a sound for sore ears. "Amy!" he beams, flopping back onto the bed. "How's things?"

"Oh, you know me- I'm keepin' everyone on their toes!" he can hear the grin in her voice. "How's uni plans?"

"Barely even applied yet, Amy," he grimaces, wincing at his sparse portfolio across the room. "I don't even expect to get an interview- technically I don't count as a citizen anymore…"

"Well, you're one charming lil' corpse- I'm sure you'll sway 'em! You're irresistible!" she argues, tut-tutting at his lack of faith. As usual it makes him feel better, even if he's not sure he believes it. She just has a way of doing that- making it seem like everything will just work out, in the end.

"Thanks, Amy," he murmurs sincerely. "Anyway, did you need something- didn't you already call today? Not that I'm not happy to talk to yer, 's just usually we're lucky if we hear from you once a week!"

"Actually, I need to ask yeh something."

"What?"

"What're you and that lovely sis o' yours doing tomorrow?"

He frowns, glancing at the wall and the calendar that's as much a mass of empty squares as it's always been. "Probably Xbox and TV- why?"

"Thinkin' about popping home for a little bit," she explains, and he immediately brightens up.

"Really?" he grins. "Thought yeh were having the time of your life over there!"

"Still am- doesn't mean I don't get homesick!" she chirps brightly, and he hears something rustle in the background- fabric. She's already packing. "Or that I don't pine for my lovely friends!"

"Yeah, we've missed you, too," he chuckles. "Jem especially- not that she'd tell yeh that."

"My lips are sealed," she giggles. "I'll be back in town tomorrow morning- our final resting place, ten a.m.  _sharp._ Don't be late! Drag Jem off the sofa yourself if yeh have to! Oh, and I'm bringing a friend."

"Let me guess- the elusive almost-fiancé?" he guesses.

"Maaaaybe," she says vaguely, and he can hear the smirk in her voice. "I doubt it, but I s'pose that really hinges on what happens tomorrow!"

"Amy-?"

"Oops, gotta run- cor blimey, leave 'em alone for five minutes and what happens! This place is gonna fall apart while I'm gone- see yer tomorrow!"

She hangs up before he can even say goodbye.

He frowns at the silent phone in his hand, dazed. What was  _that_ all about? Why's she suddenly coming home? What was all that 'maybe' nonsense about her sort-of fiancé? Is he on the outside of some big joke, or a conspiracy?

"Jem!" he shouts down the stairs, getting up and shuffling along the corridor. "You busy tomorrow?"

He's so busy puzzling out her words and making arrangements with Jem that he doesn't even think about the abandoned phone number in his pocket, still patiently awaiting the day when he gives in.

Then again, maybe that won't be necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God it's almost the end. Wow. That really crept up on us, huh?
> 
> Well, I suppose this is the last time I'll say 'Until next time!' or tell you to tune in next Monday for more drama. *sniffles* Aww, I'm gonna miss you guys...
> 
> Still, while I have considered the possibility of extending this fic I think it's best to leave it where I intended. I don't want it to drag on and lose its edge, and that seems very likely with the main plot arc coming to an end. Still, maybe if I have enough ideas and there's enough demand I could post one or two extra timestamp chapters sometime in the future, or even do some kind of spin-off- maybe some kind of UA of this AU where they didn't die in that car crash? Idk. But I feel like I've really shared this whole story and this parallel world with you guys and you've helped me bring it to life, so the invitation is open for you to dip your toes in if you ever feel like writing/drawing anything to do with it- just send me links if you ever get the urge to do spin-offs or deleted scenes, yeah? If anyone can be bothered I'd love to see it :D
> 
> Well, then...
> 
> Until next time! x *sad kiss*


	20. Second Chances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, well. Looks like we've reached the end of the line, folks. No, I'm not crying, just got something in my eye. Like a pebble, or a mountain range I dunno.
> 
> I would just like to take this moment to thank you all- all of you who've read, reviewed and otherwise supported this fic, you guys have been my rock. I dedicate this chapter to you, my lovelies- I hope it's worth the wait!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3 Song lyrics at the end belong to The Shins, and poetry quotes are of course the work of the fantastic W. B. Yeats (the poems are 'An Irish Airman Foresees His Death' and 'Where My Books Go' respectively')

His clothes are on, his boots are laced and he's halfway through applying his cover-up before he realises he never made the call.

Amazing how it could slip his mind so easily- maybe it was his brain deliberately procrastinating from the daunting task with a quick bout of forgetfulness. He curses under his breath, but there's nothing he can do now- not until after he meets Amy, at least. They're already running late, as evidenced by Jem's impatient taps on the door.

"Almost there!" he calls, smearing the mousse aggressively. He'd like to scrap it altogether, but he's playing it safe. The HVF may not have any real power over this town anymore, or even any organisation since their general had scarpered (after losing his son and the respect of the community Bill Macy and his wife had upped and left- apparently he couldn't stand to live in a village that showed him neither admiration nor fear), but it's still best not to advertise oneself. He wonders how Amy'll look when he sees her- probably going  _au naturale_ again. He wishes he had her confidence.

He throws down the pot of mousse and spins on his heel, striding swiftly towards the stairs and past Jem without a second glance. He can feel her confused gaze on his back, and he knows he should try and lighten up a little, but even with the promise of seeing his best friend on the horizon it's hard to put a positive spin on things. He's still a fish out of water here, and though Rick's departure may have simplified his life in many ways it does leave him with one less person outside of his family to talk to. He's dead and he's trapped and he's still having standoffs with the house phone and losing. All in all, not the happiest start to a second life.

"Kier?" Jem asks as he pauses to grab his coat. "Y'alright?"

"Fine," he mutters, hand hovering briefly over his own jacket before finding its way to the oversized leather one beside it.

"Sure yeh are," she rolls her eyes, tugging open the front door. "C'mon, we're seeing your 'BDFF' or whatever the fuck you losers call each other. Crack a smile!"

He sighs, slouching past her through the open door as he sorts all his negative thoughts into boxes to be opened later. "You're right. Sorry."

She shrugs, closing the door behind her and burying her hands in her pockets. "S'alright," she looks up at him, shivering slightly against the autumn chill as the last of the house's warmth leaves her. "Ready?"

He smiles, and tries to fill it with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. "'Course I'm ready," he says, following his little-big sister into the dreary streets of Roarton. "S'just Amy!"

"Yeah- Amy and her  _fiancé_ ," Jem chuckles, tossing flyaway hairs out of her face.

"Almost-fiancé," he corrects, recalling her cryptic remarks on the phone yesterday. What was that girl up to?

"Wonder what kind o' bloke he is."

"A very brave one," Kieren laughs, picturing the glee with which she must drag that poor man out on exhausting day trips and crazy adventures. Another smile, small but sincere, lights his face. "And a lucky one."

* * *

The morning had passed in a blur, taxis and trains and enthusiastic commentary from Amy all fading into the background against his own ceaseless thoughts. Zoning out of reality in favour of his own reflections had been working perfectly well for him until they'd arrived, at which point she'd guided him towards a gravestone in the cemetery, leaned him against it and told him to stay put while she disappeared to God knows where. Sitting on a tombstone in an unfamiliar graveyard, crutches leaned at his side and no idea where she was or what he was doing. It did nothing for his nerves.

He's not sure he even dares to hope that this is  _the_ Kieren Walker. Even though everything adds up, all the facts check out and Amy assures him that he hasn't come all this way for nothing, it seems too impossible. Too perfect.

And if it  _is_  Kieren…

Simon traces the scar on his cheek nervously, painfully aware of how little the mousse does to hide it. He never wears the stuff at the commune, but he's seeing  _Kieren._ First time they've seen each other since they were both alive and… well, he doesn't want to scare him off right away. He wants to look vaguely like the man Kieren knew. His hair's shorter and he looks cleaner and, well,  _frumpier_  than he ever did back then, but if he has the mousse and the contacts at least he looks less monstrous. It still looks fake- after all the time they'd spent looking into each other's eyes before, it won't take Kieren long to notice that his are the wrong shade of blue. Or at least, he hopes it won't- but who knows how much Kieren remembers of their time together? Maybe his memory's even worse than Simon's was. Maybe he doesn't remember anything, and when he sees Simon he'll smile but it'll be polite, detached. The smile he gives to friends of friends, to strangers.

He's about ready to jump right up and go hobbling off in search of Amy at this point- anything to get away from the endless waves of pessimism he keeps assaulting himself with. The silence and the bleak grey sky isn't doing anything to help matters. Looks like rain. Well, that does it- no point waiting here to get soaked through by an autumn storm. He braces his hand on the stone, steeling himself to stand up. He can't just sit here anymore, he'll go mad. Well, madder.

"Excuse me?"

All the useless air in his lungs rushes from his body. Hearing that voice… it's like a warm embrace, a tender kiss and a punch in the stomach all at the same time. Even annoyed as it sounds it reminds him of home, and hope, and warmth and love and all those other things he thought he'd never experience for himself. His body is frozen, the desire to keep his face hidden warring with the urge to turn round, face the voice, see those eyes again. What colour will they be now?

He's still speaking. He has to turn round. This is why he's here. This is what he's been searching for.

"You're sitting on my-"

He takes a deep breath, turns his head, and finds himself looking into dark brown eyes. Not quite the same brown he remembers, but it doesn't matter. He looks into them, looks through them, sees his own hope and trepidation mirrored in them. He knows those eyes better than he knows his own.

Kieren Walker's mouth flops open and closed, his feet halt in their tracks. A familiar leather jacket practically dwarfs him. He seems so small, so beautiful and innocent and yet strikingly bold against the grey stone and the stormy sky, a shard of gold amid the gravel.

"…Grave."

* * *

"So  _why_  exactly did we just ditch my brother at the graveyard?"

Amy giggles, tapping the side of her nose conspiratorially. "Tell yeh later- I wanna see how it goes, first!"

Jem raises her eyebrow, but doesn't pursue that line of questioning- probably realises she's not going to get anywhere. "So," she changes the subject, or at least attempts to, unknowing that both questions essentially have the same answer. "Where's this almost-fiancé bloke, then?"

Amy grins. "Not far. Around. Sure he'll turn up sooner or later."

Jem groans, bumping against Amy's side. "Why d'you have to be so bloody vague and weird- is it those Bible nutters? They corrupted yer?"

"I just don't think it's my story to tell at the moment," Amy smiles, kicking a pebble across the asphalt.

Jem glowers at the cryptic comment, in many ways just as bad as the last ones. Amy beams, reaching out to sling an arm around Jem's shoulders.

"So, come on, BFF!" she chirps. "Don't hold out on me- I want the latest hot gossip from the hometown!"

"Gossip?" Jem scoffs, rolling her eyes. "When do we ever get  _gossip_ in Roarton?"

"All right, not gossip, wrong word for this place- news? Updates? Happenings?" Amy tries again. "The Fosters still havin' that row with the Clamworthys 'bout the hedge height? C'mon, I'm all ears!"

"Yeah, that's still goin' on," Jem laughs. "They're still an inch above regulation and Mrs. Foster won't let anyone bloody forget it."

"Classic Mrs. F," Amy says, smile widening as she sees Jem visibly relax into the easy conversation. She's been worried about the girl, still stuck in this village with all its memories and its abundance of bigoted twits. Even with her brother back it's a lot to shoulder alone. "And what about you? How've  _you_  been?"

"All right," Jem shrugs, but Amy sees a wall go up. "Can't complain."

"Oh, I'm sure yeh can if you try hard enough!" Amy prods, giving the girl a meaningful look.

"S'nothin'," Jem says dismissively, ducking out from beneath Amy's arm but keeping stride beside her.

Amy stops, forcing Jem to stop with her. She puts her hands on her hips and taps her foot, head tilting to the side searchingly. " _Jemima?_ " she nags in her best mum voice, serious yet good-natured enough not to get punched in the nose.

Jem chews her lip, stomping the ground and flattening someone's used cigarette butt with the toe of her boot. "Not sleepin' well. Nightmares."

Amy's tempted to ask her what they're about, but she thinks she already knows. You don't start so young, spend so long hunting down the monstrous remains of people you once knew without getting at least a  _little_  fucked up in the head. So instead she just takes a step forward, hoping that her bare face doesn't make the younger girl too edgy, and rests a hand on her shoulder firmly, comfortingly.

"Y'know somethin', Jem Walker?" Amy asks, waiting for her friend to look at her. "You and yer brother have more in common than you think."

Jem's brow furrows, a confused frown taking shape. "What d'you mean?"

"I mean you both put up with way more shit than yeh deserve," she says, lips quirking into a small grimace. "And you both have a bad habit of clamming up and thinking yeh can get through it all on yer lonesome."

She raises her other hand so she holds both her shoulders, meeting her gaze steadily.

"Just promise me you won't deal with this alone if yeh don't have to, all right?" she pleads, grip tightening minutely. "S'long as I'm here, and Kier's here and your family's around, yeh don't need to put on a brave face for us, okay? You can take down that big ol' castle wall o' yours once in a while."

Jem doesn't speak, barely even nods, but there's relief buried in her troubled eyes. It feels like something changes between them, like they finally reach some kind of understanding, and it's a real breath of fresh air after far too long skirting around the sensitive subjects. Well, there'll be no more of that from now on- not if Amy has any say in the matter.

When the emotional openness gets too much for her stoic little heart to handle Jem clears her throat and takes a step back, neatly extracting herself from Amy's grip and turning back to their original route, starting up a new stream of chatter about the kooky behaviour of the Roarton residents. Amy grins, swinging her feet as she walks alongside her. She may not be ready to talk yet- girl's stubborn as a mule- but she will be. And she'll be here for her when she is.

Jem freezes mid-stride, eyes flashing meaningfully to Amy. Amy follows her glance, and momentarily considers diving headfirst into the nearest shrubbery.

Philip is walking towards them, once again carting an armload of printed A4 posters, trying desperately not to look at them and failing miserably.

Amy yelps as she feels Jem's hands on her from behind, shoving her forward. "What're you doin'?" she hisses.

"Intervening," Jem states simply, smirking as she spins round and strolls further down the way they'd come. She pauses to look into a shop window several yards away with blatantly feigned interest, studiously ignoring any of the desperate signals Amy throws her way. Dick.

"Hi, Amy."

Well, no backing away now. Amy takes a deep breath and forces a smile in response to his shy greeting. "Hi, Philip."

He smiles briefly, arms clutching the stack of papers tighter to his chest. It's almost the same image as the first time she saw him, same shop window and everything. They aren't posters for a missing boy this time, but announcements for the arrival of a new Roarton MP, requesting everyone's presence at some awful-sounding meeting. He's not a gawky eighteen year old anymore, taller and broader and somehow more assured even when cowering as he is now, shrinking under her scrutiny. For a second she feels guilty about making him feel that way, until she remembers that he's partly to blame for this situation. The way things had ended between them… well, it was awkward for them both.

"Amy…" he begins, fumbling for the right words. She waits patiently, neither forgiving nor condemning for the moment until he's had a chance to say what he wants to say.

"I didn't mean to say that. Those things. At least not… like that," he mumbles, fiddling with the edges of the papers nervously. "I mean, I didn't want it to come off like that…"

He sighs, raising a hand to rub the back of his neck. "I just don't really know what I'm s'posed to do or… which way I'm supposed to  _turn,_  anymore."

Despite her reservations, Amy finds her heart softening a little towards him. "That's okay," she murmurs, shrugging. "I don't think many people do, these days…"

Silence hangs heavy between them, shifting feet restless and minds racing with unsaid things.

Finally Philip clears his throat, nervous eyes flicking up to her and then back down to the papers.

"Um," he mumbles, tapping his fingers anxiously. "I know this is a long shot but d'you want to get, uh, coffee or tea or something? Sometime? When yer ready?"

Not rushing, not pushing, and vaguely hinting that he wouldn't mind being seen in public with her. It's getting somewhere. "Can't drink, Handsome," she smiles, watching his face flush crimson.

"Oh, yeah, uh," he stammers, almost dropping his posters in embarrassment. "Uh, okay, not coffee- just something else? I dunno, walk in the park, or… something? Just to, y'know, talk?"

It's hardly a promise, and there's no guarantee it'll work, no guarantee he can put her before his work or even that she'll stay long enough to find out. But it's a starting point, a peace offering- an olive branch, of sorts.

The tiniest glimmer of hope warms her spirit as she accepts the offer. "Yeah. I'd like that."

He gives her one of those rare smiles- the really fleeting ones, there and gone in the blink of an eye and yet so warm and radiant in the meantime, like a ray of sun through the clouds.

"Great," he beams, a little confidence back in his voice. "I'll talk to you soon, yeah?"

"I'll be around," she smiles, patting his shoulder awkwardly as he walks past her, continuing on his leaflet dropping mission. She catches him glancing back at her once or twice, his blush darkening every time he sees her watching. She giggles, a warm, happy glow filling her chest and shining from her face.

"So?"

She turns round to find Jem watching her, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. "So what?" Amy asks innocently, pouting back at her.

Jem responds by pursing her lips and making obnoxiously loud kissy noises. Amy laughs, grabbing the youngest Walker in a headlock and ruffling her hair, dragging out breathless guffaws in place of annoying snogging sounds. In the end Jem wrestles her way out and races ahead, practically begging Amy to chase.

And chase her she does, all through town, giggling like six year-olds. Like sisters.

Amy spares one last glance from the road ahead to look back the way they'd come. To Philip, to the graveyard, to Simon and Kieren. And as she looks, she hopes.

Maybe, just this once, everyone can get their happy ending.

* * *

"This yours?"

It's him. It can't be, but it is. Kieren can't even reply, can only stare open-mouthed as the man from his dreams crouches beside his tombstone. He finds himself analysing everything about him- the way he winces as he bends stiffly down, the way his hands twitch restlessly, the way his slicked-back hair- shorter than he'd ever seen it before- stays perfectly smooth in the breeze, the way he focuses his attention on the inscription because looking at Kieren is too much. Is it a  _good_  too much or a bad one? He can't even think about that right now because Simon fucking Monroe is  _here_ , alive (sort of) and in the flesh, right in front of him.

"It rhymes," Simon shrugs, voice level as he eyes Kieren's inscription with barely masked distaste. Poetry snob.

"I didn't choose it," Kieren mutters, deciding for some reason to defend his honour against the pretentious twat.

Simon looks up to him, and Kieren hates those contacts with their off-shade of blue and the way they mask all the emotions that used to flash across his eyes. The dark-haired man cocks his head to the side, intrigued, or maybe sad. "What would you have chosen?"

"I dunno," Kieren answers honestly. Even with a knife in his wrist he'd never really thought ahead to the actual death part. Or at least not to the things that came next. "A poem, or something."

Simon straightens up, and there's the wince again. Not necessarily a pained wince- he supposes he can't feel that anymore- but a stiff one, a tired one. Kieren doesn't miss the way he leans his hand on the stone for support, and he's about ready to confront him on it, but as Simon's voice reaches out and wraps around him like a song he can't honestly remember what he was going to ask.

" _I balanced all, brought all to mind,_

_The years to come seemed a waste of breath,_

_A waste of breath the years behind,_

_In balance with this life, this death."_

Kieren's breath falters, familiarity striking him along with all the other emotions pulled to the surface by the rich voice.

Simon shifts on the spot, glancing back and forth between Kieren's face and the stone. "That's what I would've wanted, if I'd bothered to leave a will- s'pose I never thought that far ahead."

 _Well, that's another thing we have in common._ Kieren gulps past the lump in his throat. "Yeats, yeah?"

"Yeah," Simon breathes, face relaxing into the slightest smile. "You remembered."

"You read me one of those," Kieren muses out loud, digging deep for that memory of their last night together, when they'd lain side by side beneath the covers as the hours ticked by and their journey loomed ever closer. "The night before…"

Simon nods, hand drifting from the stone as he takes a step closer, lips framing the beautiful words, as natural to the Irishman as breathing.

" _All the words that I utter,_

_And all the words that I write,_

_Must spread out their wings untiring,_

_And never rest in their flight,_

_Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,_

_And sing to you in the night,_

_Beyond where the waters are moving,_

_Storm-darkened or starry bright."_

His voice, thick and rich like velvet, is all it takes to melt his defences, send his remaining barriers crashing down. He isn't a memory, or a hallucination. He's here, standing right in front of him, and though his eyes are masked by thick lenses his gaze feels just like he remembers it, warming his numb body from head to boot-clad toe.

He doesn't even spare a thought for their bleak surroundings, for Simon's limp or even for the possibility of being seen as he launches forward, closing the distance in two swift bounds. One hand goes to Simon's head, cracking the gel to run fingers though his hair, the other to his waist, his cold palms finally back on Simon's body where they've always belonged. He doesn't even have it in him to kiss him yet, or speak, or do anything other than just bury his face in the crook of his neck and hold him as close as thick clothes and physics will allow.

Simon staggers back on unsteady legs, clinging tight to Kieren for support as he regains his footing and returns the embrace, just as tight and then tighter still. Even through numb skin he feels Simon's hands on his back, rubbing his shoulders through the thick leather of the jacket, feels one of those hands slide up to his neck and stroke tenderly, almost reverently against his throat and jaw, up to his ear and back, as if re-memorising his features. Features that must look so strange, unnatural, coated in thick layers of manufactured mousse. Like Simon's.

Kieren reluctantly drags himself out of his familiar little niche in Simon's shoulder. He pulls his head back far enough to look at Simon's face with its artificial colouring, their covered eyes meeting across the short distance as both of them long to once again close it.

Kieren reaches up, traces along the new scar on Simon's cheek, finger skimming the skin beneath an eye that's just the wrong shade of blue. "Can you…?" he murmurs, brushing his eyelid with the pad of his thumb and hoping he'll understand.

Simon looks terrified for a split second. Then he sets his jaw and nods, tearing his hand from Kieren's face to reach up to his eyes.

With two strokes the lenses are out, discarded on the grass as the hand smears across his face, blurring the mousse and revealing flashes of milk-white skin. He looks back up to Kieren with new eyes, whiter than pearls with the merest dot of black at the centre, and it seems so strange and yet so natural to Kieren that he should be able to read them so well. He sees fear in their depths, clawing through the fragile mask of calm. He sees hope mingled with despair, and love, so much love, more than he'd ever seen before.

He pulls his own hand away, catches the flicker of fear in those milky eyes as Simon immediately leaps to the worst possible conclusion. Kieren doesn't give him time to linger there.

Before either can speak his lenses are out too, scattered to the earth beside Simon's. He swipes his fingers across his cheek, sees the tips come away orange.

They stare at each other, taking in every exposed inch of bare skin, exploring the depths of their new eyes. As the silence stretches Kieren starts to feel a knot of fear tug at his stomach. Maybe this is too much. Maybe Simon can't look at him like this. He's surprised he can look at Simon like this- but even though his skin his pallid and his eyes are white they're still  _his,_ still set against a face he knows better than his own and is even now still discovering. Maybe that's not how it is for him. Maybe-

He flinches as he feels Simon's hand against his chin, tilting his now downturned face up to the light. The grin that spreads over his face is slow, warm, easy. It makes Kieren's dead heart skip.

His fingers move, trace gently along the narrow lines of white skin on his cheek. "Perfect as the day I met yeh," Simon smiles. It's not an empty comfort, a mindless platitude or a white lie. He means it, honesty shining through his eyes and warming his voice.

Kieren laughs, the breath he didn't realise he'd been holding puffing from his lips in a relieved burst as his hands once again find Simon's face.

"Right back at yer," he whispers, his smile in danger of breaking his face in two.

They're both here. Both alive and together, both healthy (relatively speaking) and happy and still so, so in love that it's like the past three years apart never happened. It seems absurd, absolutely preposterous that they should even  _be_  here, let alone be back together. Coincidence had brought them together- a more optimistic person might call it fate- and it had torn them apart, and now here they are again, just another in a long, long line of impossible happenings that keep them bound together. Apparently even death isn't strong enough to break that link.

As the sheer, blinding impossibility of their situation dawns on them, as their relief grows with every passing second, the two are laughing too much to even kiss. All they can do is lean their foreheads together, hold each other close as the joy floods out of them in giddy bouts of laughter that would make them look absolutely fucking mental to anyone passing by. Well, let them think what they want to think- no way either of them are wasting this second chance on something as stupid and downright miserable as pretending  _not_ to be fucking delirious.

"Simon."

Simon bites back his laughter, watching Kieren's face expectantly.

Kieren darts forward, pressing the lightest peck to the corner of Simon's mouth, kissing the little upward curve of his lips that he loves so much. "Love you," he whispers, for his ears only.

He'd said those words to him once before, at the last possible opportunity. It had been so loud, so painful and jarring as the car had buckled around them, he'd blacked out before he could even know if Simon had heard him. One of his biggest regrets had always been not saying it when he'd had the chance, not returning the words every time Simon had breathed them into his skin. He guiltily realises he has a lot of catching up to do.

But Simon grins, pulls him in tight for another hug, locking his arms around his back as his lips brush the shell of his ear.

"Heard yeh the first time," he breathes, setting Kieren's nerves alight and his heart glowing.

"I wasn't sure," Kieren murmurs against his hair.

"Always hear you," Simon says, so softly it could have been lost in the wind if Kieren hadn't been so utterly transfixed, eyes and ears only for the man in his arms. "Love you, too."

Nothing more to be said. They just stand, hold each other close and breathe each other in. They don't even stir as the sky begins to darken, or the first drops of rain begin to fall. It's only as the drops increase to a drizzle and even further to a flood that Kieren's eyes flutter open and he turns his gaze to the heavy sky.

"Fuck," he laughs, breaking away from Simon and sweeping his already sodden hair from his eyes. "We should probably get inside!"

"Good plan," Simon chuckles, limping back to the stone to grab his crutches. Not that he'll need them for this walk- if he thinks that he's separating from Kieren's side for a split second longer than necessary then he's clearly dead  _and_ insane. Kieren shrugs his arms from the jacket so he can hold it over his head, lifting it higher on one side and beaming in satisfaction as Simon slips into the free space.

It's almost like that night all over the again, the night on the bridge. The wind, the rain, Simon's pale face streaked with moisture and his hand reaching out to take Kieren's, holding onto him like an anchor.

" _People let you down, Kieren," he says, his grip tightening on the stone. "And that applies to everyone- you and I included. And if you don't run away or off yourself or otherwise disappear, then it's gonna be me."_

Their fingers lazily entwine, their feet begin to move, perfectly in step with each other, Kieren forgetting his stiff joints just as quickly as Simon forgets his limp, old wounds healing over. It's almost like no time has passed.

" _People also have a habit of surprising you," Kieren says, and right now he believes every fucking word. He slowly stretches out his arm, spreading it out palm-up, still just over arm's length from where Simon leans against the stone._

Together they walk, hand in hand, arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder as friends, lovers, fighters. Survivors.

" _Please, Simon," he whispers, and it feels like laying his heart open all over again- like being fourteen and standing on the Macy's doorstep with a stoop to his shoulders and a mix CD in his trembling hands. "Please, give me a chance to prove yeh wrong."_

Kieren looks up to Simon as they huddle together, safe from the icy rain beneath the shelter of their shared jacket. Looking at him now it seems so impossible that he should be able to. That they should both survive, fight their way back from death itself. That they should find each other again, against all odds.

"So," Kieren says, mischievous smile lifting his lips. "Have I surprised you yet, Si?"

Simon laughs that wonderful laugh, and Kieren decides he could happily live out the rest of his long second life with nothing but that sound to keep him company. Maybe he just might.

"Kieren Walker," Simon murmurs, grip on his hand tightening like he never wants to let go. He hopes he never does. "I don't think you're ever gonna stop…"

* * *

 

" _I call you on the telephone_

_Won't you pick up the receiver?_

_I've been down the very road you're walking now_

_It doesn't have to be so dark and lonesome_

_It takes a while but we can figure this thing out_

_And turn it back around."_

-'It's Only Life', The Shins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well.
> 
> Wow.
> 
> So... ta-dah!
> 
> You have all been wonderful- and just 'cause my story's ended doesn't mean yours can't go on! I'll leave the fates of our characters to you- maybe Bill Macy buggered off to Spain, maybe Rick's pursuing a new career as a P.E teacher, maybe Simon's parents joined the circus with a juggling double act and Amy broke things off with Philip and eloped with Jem in Paris, who knows? That's for you guys to decide!
> 
> This might be it from me for a while I'm afraid- obviously I'll be finishing off Broken Masks soon, and you'll be hearing from me in a couple of days (hope you guys are following intheflesh-art's advent calendar!), but after that I'm taking a bit of a breather from fanfic, ITF or otherwise. This little break from real life has been wonderful and immensely helpful, and I've made a lot of friends through it, but sadly I think the time has come for me to try and work out just exactly what it is I'm doing with my life. I'll be back when I can, though, and I'll still be replying to reviews and comments. Cross my heart.
> 
> Thank you all so much for sticking with me on this- and that goes for those of you that have been here since the start, the ones who came in halfway through, and to anyone discovering this fic in three years time having spent two weeks binging ITF fics and who've finally found their way back to the first eight hundred works after ninety pages of scrolling. You are the lifeblood of this story, and I couldn't/wouldn't have done it without you :) Merry Christmas, guys! Hell, merry whatever holiday you celebrate- I hope you have a good one, you deserve it!
> 
> That's all, folks! X


End file.
